


From This Day Forward

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [5]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-29
Updated: 2008-11-05
Packaged: 2019-03-18 03:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13673403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: The chronicling of a wedding, through the groom-to-be's eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The primary universe is not mine… but the original characters and story concepts here are.
> 
> I know I've already done a wedding story… but it didn't take place in my own little sub-universe now, did it? This fills in a very noticeable gap between "The Scandal" and "The Perfect Match". (Hail, hail, the gang's all here.) If I take a little liberty with English wedding tradition… forgive me.
> 
> With love and hugs always to my dearest [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[**just_dreamsome**](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/). ♥
> 
> * * *

_Two months to go_

Things were careering wildly out of control, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The wedding was meant to only be a very small ceremony and a tasteful reception afterwards. But Bridget's mother had gotten it into her head that half of Grafton Underwood—hell, _all_ of Grafton Underwood—would be coming to the wedding and reception, and Bridget apparently had no power to refuse her mother's crazy ideas.

So now, the guest list was growing exponentially, and nothing but the church and the marquee for Una's yard had been arranged.

There was only one thing to do.

As the phone rang, Mark cleared his throat and waited for his mother to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Mum," was all he could say.

There was silence on the line. "Mark, darling? Is that you?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice panicked.

"The wedding."

"Mark," she said, both emphatic and empathetic. "Bridget and you are perfect for each other in every way, perfect complements…" She caused, then continued a little tentatively, "Everything will be fine. This will be a _good_ marriage, better than—"

"No, no," he said, feeling almost relieved. He trusted Bridget. His feet, so to speak, were not cold in any way, shape or form, but it was nice to see that his mother agreed with his admittedly biased opinion. "This is about the planning. I was wondering if you could inject the voice of reason into these proceedings."

"Inject?"

"Well, I suppose not 'inject' so much as 'offer your assistance' and 'not taking no for an answer'," Mark said, finally cracking a smile. "Bridget's at her wit's end, doesn't want to end up having a huge row with her mother beforehand…" Mark drifted off, remembering the teary confession in the dark of their bedroom, in the comfort of his arms, and how he'd resolved to take care of this for her. "Can you help?"

"Of course," she said without hesitation.

He sighed with relief. "Thank you."

"There's just one thing," she said, very seriously.

A cold chill worked its way down his spine. "What?"

"It's your father," she began, and for a moment he felt like he might pass out. What was wrong with his father? Elaine laughed. "He's fine," she said, as he'd obviously telegraphed his thoughts. "It's just that he's invited half of his old colleagues from the Navy and the other half of Grafton Underwood that Pam hasn't."

After a moment of relief, Mark realised his horror and happiness: that his already immense guest list had just gotten that much bigger, and that his father, who barely showed interest in attending Mark's first wedding himself, was ringing up his old mates to ask them to come. It said a lot about how Malcolm felt about welcoming Bridget into the family.

"I appreciate his enthusiasm more than I can say," said Mark, "but you're going to have to ask him to pare it down."

She sighed, but was still grinning. "I've already warned him."

"Always good to set those expectations," said Mark.

Upon arriving home that evening he found Bridget at the kitchen table in tears. It was, unfortunately, not an uncommon sight these days. As he had taken to doing, he sat beside her in another chair and pulled her onto his lap.

"What's the matter?" he asked softly, feeling her hands flat against his back as she buried her face into his shirt.

"It's supposed to be the happiest time of my life," she said, "and I can't do anything right."

"That's kind of a broad statement," he said. "I can name quite a few things you do absolutely right."

She slapped against his back playfully and chuckled.

"I got you to laugh, didn't I?" he murmured.

Her laughter faded, and she sighed. "It's all just horrible. Horrible! How does any woman manage to survive this?"

"She pulls in her very sensible mother-in-law-to-be," said Mark.

Bridget pulled back, looking him square in the eye, as if searching for evidence of a teasing.

"She agreed?"

He nodded.

She grinned. "Oh, thank heavens." She relaxed, resting her head on his shoulder.

Mark was about to remind her that his mother was not a miracle worker, but for the time being, held his tongue. 

………

_One month to go_

Bargains had been struck, compromises made, and the guest list reduced to something approaching reasonable and not the population of a reputably-sized country town, but Bridget's stress level had not seemed to diminish any a month out from the big day.

"I can't get the girls to agree on anything," lamented Bridget. "First it was the shoes: I don't think kitten-heeled slingbacks are too much to ask for, but Jude… Jude wanted something taller to give her height, and Sharon complained about the toe being too pointy…" She sighed. "Now they're all up about the flower arrangements they'll be holding—"

He didn't know quite what to say, but knew that he couldn't go wrong with a tight embrace, so drew her close, pressing kisses into her hair.

"Honestly, Mark, I wish we'd just thought to elope and skipped this whole mess."

Her statement made Mark contemplative. While he wanted nothing more in the world than to make her his wife, he also treasured the thought of standing up before God, friends and family (as crazy as the latter two tended to be) and declare his love and devotion to her. 

She pushed back at his lack of reply, studying his features, and apparently misreading them: "And you must hate this whole thing twice as much, having gone through all of this rigmarole once already."

The corner of his mouth crooked up in a grin. "It would have been easier to elope in some ways," he said, smoothing her hair down, "but 'this rigmarole' has two very distinct benefits going for it."

"What would they be?"

"Number one," he began, bringing his fingers up to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I can't wait to take your hand and pledge myself to you for the rest of our lives in front of everyone we know and quite a few people that we don't. I wouldn't trade that opportunity for an elopement for all the world."

She smiled, then teased, "It's easy for you to say that because the most difficult decision you've had to make so far is the colour of your suit."

"Number two," he said, uninterrupted, "is that though I may not outwardly show it, the level of excitement I feel at the thought of seeing you in your dress, radiant and smiling, surrounded by hordes of people who love us and are happy for us, far outstrips anything I felt anticipating my first wedding day, which, you should know, was the plainest and most boring of all ceremonies: a civil ceremony with the registrar, a few friends, our parents, and dinner afterwards."

Her smile broadened into a big grin. "So what you're telling me," she said, on the verge of apparent giggles, "is that _you_ want the big, white, fairytale wedding that all teenaged girls dream about?"

He pursed his lips, though secretly was glad to have turned her around from her near-hysterical state over shoes and flowers, even if it was at his own expense. "If you want me to do more," he said, "all you need do is ask."

"Hmm, now that you mention it…" she began impishly, taking him in her arms again, "stress relief for the bride-to-be is now at the top of your priorities list."

He feigned deep thought. "Well. I can pencil you in for a foot massage week after—"

Playfully she smacked his shoulder then kissed him thoroughly.

………

"Mark," Bridget said tentatively as she was fussing with organisational paperwork for the reception. "I hope you realise there is someone we've forgotten to invite."

"We've already invited half the known world," said Mark grimly. "Who?"

She looked across to him from her position next to him at the table, her expression a strange mixture of trepidation and annoyance. "Your brother."

"Peter?"

"Unless you have another."

"Bridget," he said. "I have not seen him or spoken to him in years."

"Why? He's your brother."

Mark hated to think of the circumstances surrounding their estrangement; how indignant Mark had been at Peter's suggestion that Mark's choice in bride the first time around had been a mistake; how Mark had dismissed his brother as best man on the eve of the wedding only to substitute him with a man who had proved his brother right; how resentful Peter must have felt towards him for never grovelling to say Peter had been right all along; how much he resented himself for never having reached out to do so. "It's a long story. I'm afraid he has no use for me."

"So why not find out? Give him the chance to accept an olive branch. I mean, what better opportunity than something as happy as a wedding?"

He didn't want to get into the details with her, did not want to sully their own happy event with details of the disastrous last one.

"I don't even have his address," Mark said.

"Ah, but your mum did, and she gave it to me."

"And it's only a month out."

"All the more reason to get it out in the post as soon as bloody possible."

Mark sighed. "Bridget, he's not going to come."

"So if you send the invitation, and he doesn't come, then you're no worse off than you are now."

_Except of course for the blatant rejection_ , he thought. Ironic, really, since he thought Peter would have adored Bridget, as direct and unpretentious as she was. They were so alike in a lot of ways: same political leanings, similar sense of humour. He loved her, and despite everything, he loved his brother too. Ultimately, these similarities were what swayed him to agree.

"All right," he said at last, reaching to tenderly touch her cheek. "We can send him an invitation, but I want you to promise me not to be too disappointed if he doesn't turn up."

She nodded. "I promise." She then leaned forward to kiss him, sending her sheaf of papers falling to the ground. "Oh, bollocks," she said, but kissed him all the same.

………

_A week to go_

Uncle Nick's arrival from New York admittedly made Mark's heart pound a little bit faster, because it made the upcoming nuptials that much more real, even as much as he wanted them very much to take place. Nick was staying with the Darcys in Grafton Underwood, 'Wedding Command Central' as Bridget had come to refer to it, and had immediately taken to ensuring the menu had been drafted per his previous instructions. Nick came to London the day after his arrival to see the happy couple in advance of the day, and he also insisted on cooking that evening, a new pasta recipe he'd picked up from an acquaintance in New York.

"By the way," said Nick as he began dinner preparation, "I've taken the liberty of inviting a couple of my friends."

Before he could think better of it, Mark blurted, "To the wedding?"

Nick flashed his steely eyes to Mark as he replied, "No, to dinner. Of course to the wedding. Don't be daft."

Mark didn't see the point in arguing with his uncle on this matter, because regardless of the fact that this was his own wedding, Mark would lose. "Anyone I know?" Mark asked instead.

"Of course. Arthur Linley, whom I knew from Cambridge, and Robert Abbott, whom I thought might want to see first hand why you ended up turning down that very lucrative offer from the New York offices."

Bridget looked momentarily confused, but then clearly recognised the latter's last name from the New York law firm from which Mark had walked away from a position, just for her. "Oh."

Mark reached across the counter to take her hand. "I strongly suspect Robert will come away from the day with the sense that I made the absolute right choice."

She smiled, sweetly blushing pink and lowering her lashes almost demurely. He knew better, though… and was thankful for it. He was also thankful—not to mention very surprised—that his uncle was excited enough about the marriage that he was not only coming (usually he hated weddings, avoided them like the plague) but was inviting friends along.

Mark was a very fortunate man, indeed.

As they enjoyed Nick's marvellous meal, Bridget proceeded to explain to Nick in great detail all of the ins and outs of planning the day, the drama behind colour choices, of who would be sitting next to whom, of flower arrangements and logistics and every little detail that he himself had heard a hundred times before. Mark could only regard his uncle feeling something akin to shock that Nick was sitting there listening quietly and attentively, a look of pure affection on his face, without a wry comment or interjection, not a single one. It was unbelievable.

It was after that lovely dinner with him that, as they were rising from the table to enjoy a bit of a lounge in the sitting room, Nick placed his hand upon Bridget's shoulder, looking very serious indeed. Mark knew that Nick's opinion of Bridget had improved greatly over the course of the time they had spent together, but he wondered (with not a small amount of worry) what sort of lecture Nick might be about to give her. Mark remained attentive, ready to step in on her behalf if needed.

"Bridget, child," he said. "I've been waiting a long time to pass this on. It was mine to do with as I saw fit, and honestly there were times when pitching it out the window would have made me feel a whole sight better. I'm glad now, though, that I didn't, because now I can pass it on to you, since I'm not likely to ever need the blasted thing." He then handed her a small velvet pouch, which she worked open and gazed into.

Bridget gasped and looked up at Nick, her eyes wide and clearly on the verge of torrents of tears. Mark immediately went over to her and she turned, throwing her arms around Mark's waist and bursting into sobs, muttering something incomprehensible into his shirt.

Mark took the bag from her grasp and looked inside, saw what the object of discussion was and pulled it out to examine it closely: the gorgeous comb tiara that had been Mark's maternal grandmother's for her wedding to his grandfather, three gloriously bright shining flowers and leaves formed of diamonds, with additional accents of pearl along the headband. Mark had always found it beautiful without being ostentatious, but to his dismay he realised he had nearly forgotten all about it; certainly if any woman deserved to wear it, it was Bridget. She clearly was touched beyond compare, but from the look on Nick's face, it appeared he thought she was in some way offended, which somewhat amused Mark; the man remained cool in every situation, except he didn't know what to do with a crying woman in his proximity. Mark held her tight and met his uncle's gaze.

He offered Nick a translation with a smile: "She loves it." 

Nick brought his brows together in a worrisome way. "Are you quite sure, boy? She's practically falling apart in your arms."

"Quite sure."

She reared back from Mark at that moment, then turned to throw her arms around Nick's neck and hug him within an inch of his very life as she started to babble in a slightly more coherent fashion.

"It's absolutely gorgeous and stunning and oh my _God_ , I don't deserve something so exquisite, so precious… I mean, your _mother's tiara_ …"

"Yes, you do deserve it," said Nick decisively, enfolding her in his arms to return the hug. "You will look like an angel, even though Mark and I know that to be quite far from the truth."

She giggled through her tears as she reared back to look at him again. He placed one hand on either side of her face, then planted a kiss on the centre of her forehead before engaging her eyes.

"I sincerely wish the both of you a long and happy life together, dear child," he said, quite soberly.

She smiled, her eyes brimming with fresh tears, before hugging him tight again. Mark was surprised to the point of speechlessness. He could not recall the last time he'd seen Nick do such a thing. In fact, he was confident that Nick had never before done such a thing.

"Thank you," she said at last, pulling back from Nick, wiping the tears from her face and grinning. "Though I will say that I'm terrified at the thought of one of those gems popping loose."

"None have popped free thus far," said Nick, "though to be fair, it's only been worn twice."

"Twice?"

"Mm," said Nick. "My mother and my sister."

"Oh, right," said Bridget, then screwed up her face. "You mean _she_ —?"

Mark knew to whom Bridget was referring. "No, she did not," he said, then added with a grin, "Would not have gone with the business-suit-like dress she wore."

She smiled, though her eyes were still soft and emotional. 

Nick added, half under his breath, "I didn't want that greedy little cow to even know about it, truth be told."

Bridget sputtered a laugh before stopping herself and looking at Mark for a reaction.

"No," said Mark, "go ahead and laugh. In retrospect, he was quite right to feel that way." He reached to give Bridget the tiara. "Here."

She took it, looking at it closely with a measure of awe, even still, then raised to place it on her head.

"No," said Mark abruptly.

"What?" she asked, alarmed, freezing in place.

"Sorry. I only mean… I don't want to see it on you until the wedding."

She lowered her hands, smiling almost bashfully. "Oh. Okay."

When Nick departed, Mark realised she was still holding the tiara in her hand. "Bridget, set that down already."

"I'm afraid I'll lose it," she confessed.

"We could take it upstairs with us," he said, slipping an arm around her waist. "It is, after all, time for bed."

"Oh, Mark," she said. "That reminds me. I think we shouldn't sleep together."

"What?" he asked, bewildered. "Where would you have me sleep?"

"No, no," she clarified. "I mean I think we shouldn't have sex until after the wedding."

He blinked in his disbelief that this would be coming out of her mouth. "I thought my chief duties were to be your stress reliever, though."

She smirked. "There's always a foot rub."

"Why, Bridget?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound like a whiny child. "What sort of madness is this? We've been sleeping together for nearly two years, give or take a few foolish months apart."

"To give it a little bit more authenticity, to make our wedding night that much more exciting," she said. "Was Jude's idea."

"Remind me to thank Jude," he said sarcastically. "Do you want me to go crazy, sleeping in a bed with you and being instructed I'm to keep my hands off of you?"

"Don't think you can control yourself?" she teased.

"Of course I _could_ ," he said. "I just would rather not."

"Ah, but you could," she said with a grin. "Perhaps a compromise?"

"Are you trying to negotiate sexual favours? You are completely mad."

"Oh, Mark, be thankful I'm not the sort to have held out altogether until our wedding night."

"Believe me, I am." Had that been the case, they would have been married before that second Turkey Curry Buffet.

"So let's see," she began, folding her arms across her chest. "I'll allow kissing. And hugging. And cuddling in bed, sleeping in each others' arms, and/or spooning."

"You're too generous," he said dryly.

They went upstairs, did their respective nightly routines and slipped into bed. After switching off the bedside lamp, Bridget turned to Mark to kiss him good night.

He raised a hand to her face, sliding it around to grasp the back of her neck, holding her to him as he continued to kiss her.

She broke away with a laugh. "Fair enough. I hardly gave you enough— _oh_."

Undeterred, he had begun kissing her chin, moving quickly to her jaw then her earlobe.

"Mark." It didn't sound like a protest so much as an impassioned gasp. "I told you—"

He had worked his way down to the hollow of her throat, swirling his tongue into the divot between her collarbones. "You said kissing was allowed," he murmured. "You never said anything about _where_."

"Damn bloody barrister."

He laughed low in his throat, but did not cease kissing her.

He had begun a trail down her sternum, could feel her fingernails raking through his hair— _such violent protest_ , he thought amusedly—and had gotten as far as the top button at the vee of her nightshirt's collar when he stopped suddenly.

"What?" she asked, alarmed.

"Nothing," he said, pulling the sheets up, turning over and settling into his pillow. "Just a long day ahead of us tomorrow; time to turn in. Good night."

There was a moment or two of silence before she said, "Hey!"

"What?" he asked, feigning grogginess.

"You didn't have to stop."

"Oh, but I did," he said. "You told me no more than that and a snuggle before our wedding night."

Her voice came out sounding very, very pathetic. "I'll at least take the snuggle."

He gave in far too easily, as he always did. He turned over again and took her in his arms, pulling her close to him, feeling her arm reach around his waist to settle a hand on his back, as he buried his nose into her hair.

"Is that better?" he asked softly.

"Mmm," she said.

"Was that a yes or a no?"

"I'm not sure."

He chuckled. "What do you mean, you're not sure?"

"Well, now that the reality of it's here," she said, "I realise I would rather like to have one last meal before fasting."

At this he outright laughed. "For all your teasing, darling, it would seem that it's you that doesn't have the fortitude to withstand enforced celibacy."

"Mark," she said in a mournful tone, "don't tease me. It's like my suddenly resolving to give up chocolate biscuits, then you dangling one in front of me when I never got to eat one last one."

He laughed again. "I remind you that this was _your_ idea."

"I know," she said mournfully.

"…but I suppose I could be persuaded to give you one last chocolate biscuit."

Now she reared her head back and laughed, which gave him an opportunity to descend upon her mouth with another kiss… to which he did not restrain himself for long.

Afterwards, nestled cosily in his arms, he heard what sounded like a long sigh come from his bride-to-be, not the sigh of contentment, but rather, of worry.

"What's wrong, darling?" he asked.

"What makes you think something's wrong?"

"That was rather an impressive sigh."

She sighed again. "I was just thinking. Will it always be like that?"

"What?"

"You know," she said. "People say the spark disappears when you're married."

He tightened his embrace. "Since it's not really appropriate to pledge this during our vows, I promise you right now that I will, with terrifying regularity, pounce upon you and ravish you senseless even when we're in our nineties."

She tightened her arms around him, too, and he heard her laugh lightly. "I'll hold you to that."

"I have no doubt," he said, closing his eyes, feeling utterly content.

………

_Five days to go_

Mark should have known that the 'quiet night out' would end up being something else altogether.

It seemed innocent enough at first. The wedding was looming on the horizon, but he was home alone; Bridget had gone out for the evening with her girlfriends, something she hadn't done for the previous month or so due to the pressures of wedding planning. A knock at his door revealed, to his great surprise, his friend Hugh standing there.

Hugh immediately burst into a laugh. "Don't have to look as if the world is ending, mate. I found myself unexpectedly in London, and thought I'd swing by and drag you and Bridget out for a drink before heading back."

"Bridget's not home."

"Well, you then. What do you say?"

Honestly, he just wanted to rest and watch some football highlights on the telly, but it was Hugh, and he rarely got an opportunity to see the man as it was. "Sure. Give me a moment to leave Bridget a note, so she doesn't worry if she gets home before I do."

"Fair enough."

Within moments they were on their way, and to his surprise once more, they ended up at the Carlton. "Didn't know you were a member," said Mark.

"I'm not," he said, "but I know you are, and they have a remarkable bar here."

Mark chuckled.

The man at the door tipped his hat at the two of them, and they entered, but found that the bar was apparently closed, something Mark had never seen before. "That's odd," said Mark.

"We're having difficulties up here," called the bartender. "You'll want to go to the meeting room down the hall."

Mark thanked the man, then the two of them went down the hall to the room he'd indicated.

What happened next nearly caused Mark to go into cardiac arrest.

A cacophony of male voices shouted out "Surprise!" at top volume as he entered; a sea of male faces grinned wildly at his entrance. He spotted a variety of friends, acquaintances, family, and associates: Giles, Jeremy, his father Malcolm, Bridget's father Colin, Derek, cousin Simon, and of course his uncle Nick, among others.

"What on earth is this?" Mark asked, astonished.

"It's your stag party, boy," said Nick, grinning and coming forward with a drink. "Thirty-five year old scotch," he explained, pressing it into his hand. "The occasion merits it."

"Told you we were coming for a drink," said Hugh, patting Mark's back then going for a drink of his own.

"Stag party?"

"Yes, you know, celebrating your last days of freedom, or so it goes," piped up Giles, who had clearly already had a drink or two. "Though given the choice of freedom or your choice in future wife, I'd leave the freedom behind."

Mark felt himself smiling despite his shock. He agreed with Giles wholeheartedly.

"A toast!" called out someone, possibly Jeremy. "To blissful captivity!"

A roar of laughter and a simultaneous raising of glasses—some tumblers, some wine glasses—was followed by the echo of said toast, and Mark found himself raising his glass, then drinking from it. Very smooth stuff, but still burned like liquid fire as it trailed down his throat. He felt a fingertip on the bottom of his glass, forcing him to empty the entire thing at once.

A loud "hurrah!" sounded through the room.

"Get this man another," called out the unmistakeable voice of Geoffrey Alconbury; within short order a second then a third drink was pressed into Mark's hand, accompanied by additional toasts that seemed more and more ridiculous.

"Indentured servitude and beautiful blondes!"

"Wedding bands and bonds of slavery!"

It seemed that the men there had made a pact before Mark's arrival not to let Mark keep a full drink or an empty glass in his hand. Before too long Mark could no longer feel the scotch hitting the back of his throat as he knocked it back, and his head was feeling distinctly swimmy. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there and had lost count of the number of drinks he'd had.

"So how did you know I would be free tonight?" Mark asked; his tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth, and he stumbled over his words a little.

Hugh burst into laughs. "She called me over the weekend to tell me she was goin' out tonight and to rouse up a stag party for you."

"Haw!" chimed in Jeremy, a bit squiffy himself. "Little does she know that her girlfriends got her a bit of eye candy for tonight! Magda didn't think I heard, but…"

Mark blinked, trying to comprehend what his friend meant by this. "What?"

"A stripper, Mark, a stripper," said Geoffrey, suddenly seeming very near and very loud. 

Jeremy nodded. "Apparently quite, erm, talented."

Hugh began howling, sloshing his drink. "Mark, old man, can't believe you let her friends get her a stripper!"

"I had no idea!" he protested, trying to get to his feet, dangerously bobbing around as he did; he felt hands on his shoulders, chest and back as they tried to keep Mark upright. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to go home, irrationally but absolutely sure that this stripper would seem so exciting that Mark in turn would look like a stiff, stodgy old man in comparison, then Bridget would realise the error of her ways…

"Where are ya goin'?" asked Hugh, grasping his shoulder tightly.

"Home. Have to find Bridget."

"Why? Bridget's out."

"She'll wonder where I am at this late hour," Mark said.

Once again laughter resounded throughout the room. "It's only ten o'clock!" shouted a voice. "We've only just gotten started!"

"Give him another drink," said a second.

With a push to the shoulder, Mark sank back to the chair and took the drink as if all willpower had been drained of him. Someone started a round of an old bar song he hadn't heard since Cambridge, which he found himself singing along out of habit, though his thoughts got even darker, thinking of his first marriage, and his first best man. He also thought of his estranged brother, to whom Bridget had begged to send an invitation, whom Mark was confident would not come, and from whom they had not yet gotten an response…

It seemed that no time had passed since they had gone into singing and general rabble-rousing when he felt Nick grab him under the arm. Mark had a very difficult time getting to his feet, was slightly disturbed by the serious expression on Nick's face.

"Come on, time to go home," he said gruffly. He was, as always, stone cold sober.

"But it's only ten o'clock."

"Mark, it's one in the morning, you're hammered beyond recognition, and your bride-to-be is—"

Mark remembered in an instant. "The stripper."

"Well, yes, not appropriate for a young lady in the least," said Nick, "but I mean she's likely home by now and wondering where you are."

"But everyone else—"

"There is no one else, except for Hugh and Jeremy."

Mark suddenly realised Nick was right, as Hugh came to shore up Mark's other side.

"Come on, my friend," said Hugh.

Next thing Mark knew he was being herded up the stairs of his own home by his uncle. Mark felt morose. His own bachelor party had been pathetic in his own mind, his fiancée was living it up with her friends and a stripper, and he was the drunkest he could remember being for a very long time.

"Don't know where my key is," said Mark, feeling even more a failure.

"I have a key," reminded Nick.

They were then struggling up the stairs to the main bedroom. It didn't look like Bridget was actually home yet. Mark's world moved sideways as Nick released him to fall onto his bed; he came to rest on his stomach, could feel his leg being raised by the calf and the ties on his shoes being loosened when he heard Bridget's voice.

"What on earth?"

He heard Nick's voice respond but the words themselves were fuzzy. Something about the party and getting a little too toasted.

"Oh," said Bridget with a giggle. "Poor Mark. He'll have such a headache tomorrow."

She took up his foot and removed his shoes.

"So what's this I hear about a stripper?" came Nick's voice, sounding very stern.

She laughed, splitting his head in two with the volume, which he was certain wasn't actually all that loud. "Absolutely gorgeous hunk of a fellow. Came in dressed like a business man, stripped down to a little—well, just a little thing, really. It was a riot. He was great."

Silence from Nick. Mark imagined it was one of his stony glares.

Mark managed, "Great?"

It was, he realised, a rather pathetic tone; she settled on the bed beside him, felt her hand on his back. "Oh, Mark. No need to fret. He was not only as gay as an Easter bonnet, but dumb as a box of air."

"Gay as a—" began Nick. Mark turned a little and could see Nick looked like he was about to hit himself hard on the forehead.

Mark felt the second shoe coming off, then his socks. "Easter bonnet. Yes. Queer as all get out. And too dumb even for Tom, bless his heart. Jesus, Mark," she continued, "a little help here. Feel like I'm trying to undress a body."

He groaned. He couldn't even do this right.

"I'm going to head back to my room at the Carlton," said Nick, "before you rope me into undressing my nephew, which I managed to avoid when he was a babe. Good night."

She stopped what she was doing, presumably to go over to Nick; Mark heard the distinct sound of a kiss on Nick's cheek. "Good night, Uncle Nick, and thanks for getting him home safe and sound."

"Anytime, dear child."

There was a moment of silent and then he felt her climb back up onto the bed, pushing his shoulder then rolling him over so he was on his back. He looked up to her with aching eyes; she appeared to be completely amused. "How much did you have?"

"Don't know," he said. "They just kept coming."

"Well, come on. You need to get these clothes off and go to bed."

"I'm terrible," he blurted, as she helped him sit upright.

"How are you terrible?" she asked very seriously, undoing his shirt buttons.

"Stiff and boring."

She raised her eyes to him, ceasing what she was doing.

Now that he was on a roll, he added, "I'm no fun at all. And less than average looking. And you think I'm a monster for voting Tory."

"I do not."

"I'm just a stiff, boring old Tory."

"You are not," she said.

"I am, and I don't know what you see in me," he lamented. "You could do so much better."

"Mark," she said firmly, her hand on his cheek. "You're drunk."

"I know," he said mournfully. "I'm horrible."

He watched her suppress a smile. "You are anything but horrible. You are the best thing that ever happened to me." She reached forward and embraced him tenderly. "You're just being a morose drunk."

He raised his arms to hold her in return.

The next thing he knew, it was morning, he was still dressed and half under the sheets; Bridget was not beside him, though she clearly had been, judging from the indentation to his right. He raised his delicate, pounding head, felt his world go off-centre as that same world sloshed around him.

He groaned and his head dropped back to the wonderfully soft pillow; he remembered in an instant why he did not like partaking of an excess of any alcohol, especially scotch. Especially very old, very smooth scotch. He raised his hands to cover his eyes to shield them from the light, pressing gently as if that could relieve the pain.

He felt the bed depress beside him. "Good morning," Bridget said softly. It was still more than his head could take.

"I'm with you on the second half of that; the first, not as much," he whispered back.

He felt her fingers along his hairline, heard her softly chuckle. "I have some coffee and aspirin for you, my horrible husband-to-be. God knows you've nursed me back from a hangover often enough."

"Thank you," he said before daring to bring his hands away from his eyes again. The room seemed achingly bright. He turned to his side, then lifted his head to take the aspirin with the coffee. As he took in more coffee, he sighed, then said again, "Thank you."

"Of course," she said in return, her fingers combing through his hair again. He finished the coffee and she relieved him of the cup. "How does a nice hot shower sound?"

"Delightful," he said, "but right now you'd have to bring the shower to me."

"Poor darling," she said, settling in beside him, resting her head on the pillow, pulling him closer to hold him. "No sword fights for my honour today, I think."

"What?" he asked, perplexed, raising his head slightly to look up at her, even though it pained him to do so.

"Sword fights. You know. That whole 'making me a queen' business." His expression must have conveyed that he had no idea what she was talking about, because she smiled broadly. "You don't remember that, do you?"

"I am ashamed to admit that I do not," he said quietly.

"Oh, Mark, don't be like that." She raised her hand to trace her fingers on his cheek, along his unkempt sideburns. "It was so very sweet of you. You were going on about how if it were medieval times, how you would have done anything to make me a queen—fighting those who had wronged me at the point of a sword, among them—because I deserved to be one."

"Oh, God." Another reason he didn't like to get as drunk as he had: aside from getting morose, he got mawkishly sentimental. "I'm so embarrassed."

She laughed lightly, pulling him close again, kissing the top of his head. "Don't be. It's nice to know, deep down inside, all guards down, your thoughts are first and foremost of me."

He had no good argument for that, so he just closed his eyes and let her nurse the pain away with the comfort of her embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

_One day to go_

The ceremony itself was not particularly complicated, but a run-through for the sake of combating nerves on the actual day seemed completely necessary. Mark and Bridget arrived in Grafton Underwood that afternoon, taking their things to their respective parents' homes, then went to the church under the threat of darkening skies. Aside from the vicar, they were the first to arrive; the vicar welcomed them with open arms. "How lovely it is to see the both of you! I remember both of you much younger… how much you've changed!"

"I should hope so," Bridget said. "I was kind of a dork as a teenager."

Mark chuckled, reminded once again of his bride-to-be's tendency towards verbal incontinence. "It's nice to see you too."

Flushing, Bridget added, "Yes, of course, it's very nice to see you."

"Where is your wedding party?" asked the vicar, apparently not offended.

"Not too far behind us," said Bridget. The lot from London had stopped to check into their rooms in the only bed and breakfast in town. Pam had tried to offer her friends a place to sleep, but lodging with the Joneses was impractical as they did not have the room to spare; Bridget had also confided to Mark that she secretly suspected they had no desire to spend the evening in the company of her pre-wedding-high-strung mother, something she was not crazy about doing, herself. Hugh, who would be staying with Mark at his parents', was en route from Stratford and nearly to Grafton Underwood, per his last mobile call. Nick did not come to the rehearsal, had stated in no uncertain terms that his time was better spent tending to overseeing food preparation for the wedding day: "I bloody well know what to do at a wedding."

Colin and Pam showed just then; though not directly involved in the ceremony, Pam declared she would not miss a moment of this, even the rehearsal. She took her daughter in her arms and kissed her cheek, then pulled away to examine her. "Darling, you're looking a little peaked… we'll be sure to get you in bed very early so you're bright and fresh tomorrow… and Mark, you've been making sure she hasn't been overly fretting, haven't you?"

"Of course." Foot rubs, kisses and cuddles every night.

"Well, there's just some things a bride-to-be can't help," gushed Pam. "You'll be gorgeous tomorrow, everything will go perfectly, and—"

She was interrupted just then by a rumble of thunder, and Colin took the opportunity to grasp her arm and pull her back. "Pam, let's have a seat in the pew here so they can begin."

"Begin? No one else is even here yet!"

Malcolm and Elaine appeared at the door, shaking out their umbrellas. "Hello, Mark, Bridget, Pam and Colin… and of course you, vicar…. Just wanted to see the walkthrough, hope that's all right." They took a seat besides Bridget's parents.

"It's fine," said the vicar, "though too many more and we'll be duplicating tomorrow's efforts."

All present chuckled, breaking the tension, just as the door opened. It was the entirety of the London wedding party. "Sorry we're late," apologized Magda. "Got a bit turned around leaving the bed and breakfast. Rain made it hard to navigate."

"There's another fellow heading this way too, just behind us," said Jude. Mark figured it must have been Hugh, which was confirmed when Hugh's smiling face appeared a moment later. He waved to Mark.

The vicar clapped his hands together and beamed a smile. "Are we all here then? Fantastic. Let's begin."

He explained that the men of the party would already be at the altar and at Mark's side, though at counting the number of men and women in the party, he seemed confused. "Why don't the groomsmen come and stand here in your places? Best man will come stand just to Mark's side, right about here."

They did so, though Mark explained that the last of the groomsmen, his uncle, was not present that day.

"Then who is that young man?" asked the vicar, pointing to Tom.

Tom replied, "I'm the maid of honour, in a manner of speaking."

Hugh looked over to Tom, then to Mark. "How did I not know this?"

"I'm sorry, mate. Could have sworn I'd told you," said Mark. "Since Bridget couldn't decide which of her friends to ask, I told her to simply ask the one she'd known the longest. That happened to be Tom."

While a fairly decently open-minded man, Hugh seemed surprised, even still. He managed a smile and said, "Well, I suppose if we must dance at the reception, we must, but I draw the line at snogging in the coat room." Everyone chuckled; Tom winked playfully.

The vicar spoke up. "When we begin, the first one to process will be the flower girl. Is she here with us today?"

Magda pushed Constance forward. The little girl smiled shyly. "Hi."

"What's your name, dear?"

"Constance."

"Oh, a lovely name, perfect for the job you are here to do. Come here, Constance."

The vicar was very good with Constance, explaining how she was opening the whole ceremony, and it was her blessed duty to scatter flower petals over the aisle to the altar to guarantee the happiness of the bride and groom. Her little brow furrowed as she listened very intently, nodding along with him, before turning to look at where Mark was standing with his arm around Bridget. "You mean Auntie Bridget and that man from Dad's office?" she asked him, looking slightly perplexed.

Everyone present stifled a chuckle. "Yes, Constance," explained the vicar, "though I suspect it would be all right if you call him 'Uncle Mark' now."

She appeared to mull this over with great concentration. "Okay, sir," she said, meeting the vicar's eyes. "I can do it."

"I have every confidence that you can," said the vicar with great solemnity.

Next he said the bride's attendants would process next, the first one beginning when Constance was halfway down the aisle, and so forth. Just before the bride and her father would be the maid of honour—"Perhaps I should say 'mate of honour'?" joked the vicar—then Bridget and her father, who would pull her veil back before giving her away to her husband to be. They walked through it for guidance on pace and placement, Hugh taking Mark's place at the altar, and Tom, Bridget's.

Everyone was amused.

Quickly he covered the ceremony itself, what he would be saying, and what the bride and groom would be saying in return; the exchange of the vows, the troths, and the rings; the formality of the signing of the wedding document. "Then everyone kind of processes back out in reverse order, bride and groom first, and everyone assembles in the vestry. After the church has emptied, then the wedding party would go out, followed finally by the newlyweds."

"Is that when we get to throw the rice?" piped up Constance, causing everyone to erupt with laughter.

"Yes, darling," said Magda, looking a little sheepish, patting her daughter's reddish hair.

"Now," boomed Malcolm, who up until then had been relatively silent. "I think this calls for a round at the pub. What do you say?"

Mark looked with a smile to his fiancée—who would, within the day, be his wife—and found her smiling back. "I think that sounds like a very fine idea," said Bridget.

Mark nodded.

"I have something for my ladies, and Tom," continued Bridget.

"Bit redundant, Bridge," Tom teased back cattily.

As they left the church, Mark saw evidence of the serious rainstorm that had washed through, but thankfully the rain itself had abated, and it appeared the clouds were dissipating. A half-step ahead of her, Bridget pulled Mark aside. "I know we kind of said we wouldn't buy gifts, but have something for you, too."

He looked down to her with a smile. "And I you."

"Later. When we're alone."

"You mean, before I take you home like a public school boy with a curfew?"

She laughed, getting up on her toes for a quick peck. "Something like that."

At the pub, he had a pint, she had a glass of her favourite chardonnay, and both ordered chicken pasties for dinner. With all of them there in that very casual setting—even Giles had a pint or two, and was loosening up and talking up a storm—they had a lovely time, but the whole while all he could think of was having her alone for a little while before taking her back to her parents' house… and that the next time he'd see her after that, she would be in her bridal gown.

"You still haven't said where you're going on honeymoon," said Shaz, over a pint of lager. "Mark still not telling you?"

Bridget shook her head. "Insisting on surprising me. Wouldn't even let me watch him pack my things. All I know is that my passport is required."

Mark glanced to his mother, who smiled and gave him a little wink. She had been his co-conspirator in the entire honeymoon plan, and had been absolutely confident that Bridget would consider it a dream come true. His mother's judgement had to this day never let him down.

Sharon made a dismissive sound: "Fwah. That's hardly a good clue. That just means you're not staying in England."

"I know!" Bridget said excitedly.

From the way Constance was getting whiny and cranky on her mother's lap, Mark suspected Magda and Jeremy would want to retire to their room sooner rather than later. From Bridget's sudden turn to her bag, he suspected she thought the same. She pulled out a little rectangular box for each of the women, and a smaller box for Tom. "This is to thank you for standing up with me tomorrow."

Jude, Sharon and Magda each pulled the lid from their boxes, and gasped when they saw that each one contained a gorgeous string of cultured pearls, and a matching set of drop earrings. "These are absolutely gorgeous, Bridge," said Jude. "I don't know what to say. Thank you!"

Tom's box contained cuff links with inlay pearl on the stud. "First pair I've ever owned," he said, "and probably the only ones I'd ever want. Thank you, darling." He reached across the pub table and kissed her on the cheek.

Mark knew that Bridget had intended on wearing a necklace of her mother's tomorrow, a three-tiered strand of delicate pearls, and he only smiled in approval, looking ever more forward to giving Bridget her present later.

Magda and Jeremy left shortly thereafter (the latter carrying a groggy Constance), but it wasn't until the shadows had started to get long that Malcolm paid for everyone's drinks and meals and made noises about going back to the house. With that everyone began to gather their things and head out for their respective homes.

Once outside, Mark took Bridget's hand and walked with her to the car. "How about a little detour before I take you home?" he asked as he opened the door for her.

"Not too much of a detour," said Bridget. "I think for the first time in a good sixteen years I really do have a curfew."

He chuckled. "No, not too much."

He drove them out to the edge of the town, to where the landscape turned outright pastoral again, then after pulling off of the road, led her to a stout stone wall. The sun was getting low on the western horizon, casting the countryside in shades of bronze and gold. He sat with his arm around her, feeling his warmth against her in this cooling summer evening; he closed his eyes and breathed in the faint perfume of her shampoo. It wasn't as if he wouldn't be seeing her for weeks and weeks after this night, but it had been so long since he had slept alone and apart from her that he felt her impending departure that much more acutely. He kissed her on the temple.

"The calm before the storm," she said, her voice shaking a little.

He chuckled. "Everything will be fine," he said serenely.

"I'm going to trip on my own foot and end up arse over teakettle on the middle of the church."

He continued to smile, turning to look at her as she looked out to the horizon, the fading sun setting her hair to shimmering. "You will not, love. You will be gorgeous and poised. No one will be able to take their eyes off of you… least of all me."

She looked at him at last, smiling reluctantly. 

"Just keep focused on the goal of the day," he continued, "and everything else will fall into place."

"That's easy for you to say," she said; he could tell her spirits were lifting from the teasing tone of her voice. "You haven't had your backside broadcast on television."

He laughed, then reached into his jacket pocket. The sun was, after all, diving for the horizon at an alarming rate. "I want to give this to you before we lose the light of day. Somehow giving this to you by car dome light doesn't have the same appeal."

He handed her the box—obviously jewellery, obviously from Tiffany's—and she looked up to him with wide eyes. " _Mark_. This is much more than I expected."

"Bridget," he said. "It's no more than you deserve. Now open it already."

She pulled of the ribbon, pulled open the lid, and she literally gasped. Setting the box on her knees, she pulled out the length of pearls and started to chuckle amidst her tears of happiness when she saw that the toggle clasp at the end was the same open heart as her favourite necklace. "Oh my God, this is beautiful…" she began, her voice cracking. "I don't know what to say."

"You need not say anything," he said.

"This must have set you back a small fortune—"

"None of that," he said, raising a finger to cross her lips. "If I want to shower my future wife with pretty things, I will, and I'll spend what I like."

She looked at them, examining their luminescent sheen, then met his eyes again. Simply and honestly she said, "Thank you."

"Anything for you, darling," he said. "I mean it."

He'd nearly forgotten that she had a gift for him as well, but as she handed it to him, she looked almost embarrassed. "This is for you."

"Bridget, love, what is it?"

"It's nothing fancy," she said. "Not nearly as fancy as this… but I hope you like it."

He lifted the lid to find… well, it was beautiful, but he wasn't sure precisely what it was supposed to be. It was antiqued gold, fit neatly within in the palm of his cupped hand, and was intricately and delicately designed. He examined what appeared to be a pair of hands framing a heart with what looked like a diamond inset, above which hovered a crown accented in emeralds. The craftsmanship was astounding.

"It's a Royal Claddagh amulet," she said seriously. "The hands are for friendship, the heart is for love, and the crown is for loyalty and fidelity. And since you don't wear jewellery besides your watch—well, and I suppose your ring after tomorrow—" She paused to smile. "—I thought you could, you know, keep it in your pocket for luck tomorrow, so you know that I'm thinking of—"

He reached forward, cupped her face in his hand, and interrupted her with a tender kiss.

"I guess this means you like it?" she said after he broke away, her eyes ever inquisitive.

"I love it," he affirmed. "And of the two of us, I think I received the better gift."

She smiled.

The sun was half-concealed behind the horizon; he realised he'd better get her back to the house before her mother pitched a fit. He snuggled into her one last time, combing his fingers through her hair, then kissed her on the temple again. "Come on, darling. We should go."

She nodded. "It'll be non-stop tomorrow."

"Yes," he said. "You should definitely get your rest."

"Especially since the girls will be over at seven a.m. to start primping and preening me."

"You'll be a vision, I'm sure."

He stood, took her hand and led her back to the car, she with her box in her free hand, he with his box in his, and without another word they settled into the car and drove back into Grafton Underwood.

He walked her to her parents' front door. On the front porch of her parents' house, she turned to face him; with him standing a step down, it put them nearly nose to nose. Despite the crazy day in store tomorrow, she offered him an impish grin. "I feel like you _are_ a public school boy out past your curfew," she said, "but you're still chivalric enough to walk me to my door. The question is, will you dare to kiss me goodnight?"

"Every night I possibly can."

He leaned forward, raising his hand to her face again, brushing his thumb along her face before touching his lips to hers, kissing her with the full depth of his love for her before releasing her.

"Sleep well, Bridget," he said quietly, touching his forehead to hers, closing his eyes.

"I love you," she said.

"Should hope so," he replied. "You're marrying me tomorrow."

She laughed lightly then kissed him again, then opened the door and headed into her childhood home.

"And Bridget," he said; when she turned back to look at him, he continued, "I love you too."

She smiled, then closed the door behind her.

He looked at the door for a moment more before turning back to his car. The porch light switched off just as he pulled away and headed back to his parents'.

When he got home, he found his mother in an uncharacteristically fluttery state, laying out all of Mark's clothes for the day in his room, removing the suit from its protective bag, making sure his shoes were polished to perfection and the ascot tie was without a crease. "I'm sorry to be in here and fussing," she said, "but I wanted to make sure there wasn't something I had forgotten."

He grinned, laying the box down on the dressing table besides all of the other essentials for the day. "It's quite all right," he said. "It doesn't bother me in the least."

"What's in the box?" asked Elaine.

He pulled the lid off. "It's from Bridget. Her gift to me."

"May I?" she asked, miming picking up the amulet. He nodded his assent. As she held it close to examine it, he watched her smile grow wider, and then her eyes met his. "Oh, this is lovely, and so very Bridget."

He knew she meant it as a high compliment. "She said it's for luck tomorrow."

"You hardly need that." She set it back down, then walked over to Mark. "You should retire early, get a good night's rest. I'll see you in the morning."

"Absolutely." He bent to kiss her cheek. "Good night."

After she left, he went to the window, could see the stars had appeared in the sky, the last traces of sun completely gone, and by next nightfall Bridget would be his wife. It was a prospect that he looked forward to more than anything, and yet, he could not help feel a certain melancholy: that his only brother had not come. If he wanted to hold on to unreasonable hope, he supposed he could have thought Peter would show at the church the next day, but he knew better. As much as Mark had hoped Peter would attend, this had turned out exactly as he imagined it would.

He was disappointed, but not surprised.

"Not getting cold feet, are you, boy?" Nick.

"Not at all," said Mark, turning to look at his uncle.

"So why such a long face?"

Mark explained. Nick looked thoughtful.

Nick said after some deliberation, "I'm sure there's a very good reason. I can't imagine Peter not wanting to see you happy, whatever differences you may have with each other."

Since Mark had never told anyone for the reason behind the estrangement between Peter and himself, he guessed Nick was just speaking in general terms. It did, however, remind him that their estrangement had stemmed from Peter caring too much about his brother's happiness.

"Plus," said Nick, "he would be especially happy to have someone in the family with whom he could share his ridiculous left-wing ideals."

Despite it all, Mark chuckled, thinking how astute an observation it was. "I think you're right," he said. "Still, it would have been nice to have him here."

"I know your parents wish that, too," said Nick reassuringly, patting Mark's shoulder, the older man apparently studying his nephew's face. He wondered what Nick was thinking. At last he added, "Good night, Mark."

"Good night, Uncle Nick."

He turned for the door and passed through it, before turning back to say, "Mark, I'm sure you're aware that I'm not a big fan of the institute of marriage. I just want to make sure you know that my good wishes for you and that dear child are not overstated because you're my sister's boy. I am truly happy for you both."

Mark smiled, touched to hear his uncle speak in such a way. "Knowing what I do about you makes your good wishes that much more meaningful to me. I— _we_ —thank you all the same."

With a parting, cockeyed grin, Nick turned and left the room.

Mark's eye was caught again by the amulet in its box, and it caused him to run his eye over all of the accoutrements laid out for the next day; the trousers, vest, jacket and shirt all hanging to let any remaining creases be taken care of by gravity; the ascot tie was lying flat and unfolded on the dressing table to avoid being wrinkled; he chuckled to himself to see that his mother had even picked out a pair of socks and coordinating boxers for him to wear. _Once a mother, always a mother_ , he thought, _even if her boy has long since grown into a man._

"That pretty much looks like what your mum did to my things," came a voice from the doorway. Mark turned to smile at his old friend Hugh.

"She's just got nervous energy. Forgive her for how it manifests. You know she's not normally like this."

"I know," said Hugh. "She's acting a little more like Bridget's mum, whom I had the pleasure of meeting today." His eyes went momentarily wide as if still reeling from the acquaintance. "Speaking of your lovely fiancée, is Bridget all safe and sound at her parents'?"

Mark nodded. "I can only imagine how things are going there," he said, smiling again.

"Hopefully making her a doctored hot chocolate to help her get to sleep, and not trying to give her daughter the old 'facts of life' speech," Hugh said with a chuckle. "Thought I'd come and say good night before I turned in."

"I take it you're comfortable?"

Hugh nodded. "Just on the other side of the bathroom," he said, "just like when we were school mates."

Mark laughed, thinking back to those university holidays during which Hugh would come to stay instead of making the long drive back home to Manchester. "Hope my uncle isn't giving you the evil eye like the old days."

"No, he was very civil. Guess he realises I'm not out to filch the silver, after all."

Mark laughed again at the recollection, so many years ago, of Nick's incorrect assessment of Hugh's character. _Twice he was dead wrong_ , thought Mark amusedly.

"So how are you doing?"

"How am I doing?" he asked. "I'm fine."

Hugh gave him a sidelong look. "Maybe do you need some doctored hot chocolate?"

"No, really. I'm fine."

"Not in the least bit nervous?"

"Why should I be?"

"Getting married? Tying the knot? Lots of people have irrational second thoughts on the eve of."

"I don't," he said decisively. "This is what I've been looking forward to for over a year now." Smiling again, he joked, "Everyone asking if I'm nervous is what's making me feel nervous."

At that Hugh laughed. "Fair enough." He took a look at Mark's suit, and this time when he smiled it was filled with softness and sentimentality. "I think you'll wear it quite well," he said.

Mark wasn't sure if he meant the suit or married life, but decided he liked keeping it a mystery.

"Night, Mark," said Hugh, and with a wave he headed out. Mark followed him to the door.

"Good night yourself, old man," Mark called back, then watched Hugh head into his room before going into the bathroom to prepare for bed. It felt strange to see his toothbrush resting there all by itself in the holder; his overnight shaving kit was neatly zipped and resting by the basin as he had not seen it since before Bridget had come to live with him. It felt stranger to think of a time before he had her in his life, like everything was a grey haze prior to that December night a year and a half ago.

He crawled into his double bed, switched off the light, and laid down on the pillow; not having her there, not hearing her soft breathing as she slept, made the silence seem overwhelming. He fully anticipated staring at the ceiling as his subconscious went over every detail for the next day, but it was fairly soon afterwards that he was solidly asleep, his last slumber as a single man.

………

_The day itself: ceremony_

Morning arrived at last, and it was gloriously sunny and gorgeous outside as Mark rose. He smiled as much at the pleasant weather (given the storms of the day before) as he did about the peaceful state of his mind that had allowed him to so easily fall and stay asleep. They were both good signs.

Getting showered and shaved then dressed at his parents' house all had a very surreal quality to it. There was no hesitation in him at all, no fear; he wanted this more than he could say, but he felt almost like he was an observer in his own body as he did these routine things.

He heard a faint rapping at the bedroom door just as he fastened the dark grey trousers around his waist, shirt tucked neatly in. It was his mother, and she smiled wistfully as she came to stand beside him as he looked in the mirror. "Oh, Mark," she said, her eyes tearing. "You look so dashing."

He smiled, meeting her reflection's gaze. "Thank you."

"It's rather pointless of me to say so, because I know you know this already, but I'm going to say it all the same: the two of you will be so happy together, and I'm happy for you."

He slipped his arm around his mother's shoulders, then turned to kiss her upon the temple. "I will never get tired of hearing your approval of her."

She laughed lightly. "Darling, I was pushing you towards her from the get go."

He smiled. "Is Hugh up yet?"

She nodded. "Yes. He's in the shower now, met him as he was heading into the washroom." She smirked. "He's still rather amused that his cohort in the wedding is Tom, and a bit worried. He's afraid he won't meet any girls at the reception after this."

Mark chuckled.

Elaine turned and looked up to her son, smiling and misty-eyed, not saying anything for many moments. "Well. I had better finish getting ready myself. Just wanted this moment with you before everything… it'll be nightfall before you know it, everything will be over and you'll be married…"

He reached forward and embraced his mother. "I have been before, you know."

"That was not the same," she said quietly.

Mark had no choice but to concur: "You're right."

She kissed his cheek, smiled up at him again, then left the room.

He reached for the vest, also of a solid grey; he slipped into it then picked up the deep cobalt-coloured ascot just as another knock sounded upon his door.

"Yes, come in," he said.

"Hello, son." It was Malcolm. "Just coming in to see how you were doing. No cold feet I trust."

"None whatsoever."

Malcolm saw what his son was holding, and asked, "Need a hand with the tie?"

Mark didn't, actually, and he suspected his father knew the same, but he held the tie out to the man with a smile. "Sure."

Malcolm slipped the tie around Mark's neck, sliding it beneath the collar, leaving the left side long, crossing the long side over the short, wrapping it around again before bringing it up and over the top, through the loop, so that the silken fabric fell down in a cascade over the short end and over the shirt buttons.

"There," said Malcolm with finality, after making a few adjustments to the creases at the top of the tie. "Now for one final touch."

He reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a tie pin, fixing it into place through the tie. It wasn't until his father fastened the vest shut and he turned to look at himself in the mirror that he realised the pin coordinated perfectly with the tiara Bridget would be wearing today, a subtle, small starburst of diamonds that resembled the floral pattern on that tiara.

"What on earth—I had no idea there was a matching pin," Mark said, floored.

"There wasn't," said Malcolm, looking a little smug. "This is a wedding present to you from your mother and I." Mark glanced to the door to see his mother had peeked her head into the room and was grinning with equal smugness.

He turned back to his father, still stunned. "I don't know what to say. Thank you."

His father clapped his shoulders, then kept them there. "You are very welcome, Mark," he said solemnly. "Now let's get on with this very good day, shall we?" Mark nodded.

His mother came in to kiss him again, then herded her husband away, throwing one last smile back over her shoulder.

He slipped into the jacket. He carefully placed Bridget's claddagh amulet into the interior breast pocket, then patted himself just over his heart; feeling it there against his own heart was somehow wonderfully reassuring. He took one last critical look at himself in the mirror—no cuts from shaving, sideburns were even, hair looked immaculately coiffed, suit perfectly pressed—and smiled.

Time to get on with this very good day, indeed.

……… 

With Hugh bringing up the rear in his own car, Mark rode to the church with his mother, father and Nick. Bridget had decided early on (and he had agreed) that she wanted to have the wedding at the little church there in Grafton Underwood, but when it came into sight, he was suddenly not so sure would hold the number of people invited. He decided he preferred instead to feel thankful that so many people wanted to spend this day with them, and he smiled.

Out in front he saw Jeremy and Giles; they stood there looking quite dapper in their matching grey suits, there in front of the building. His father parked and they all exited the vehicle. Jeremy at once turned and grinned, holding his hand up and waving. His mother and father entered the church, but Mark held back to talk to his groomsmen. 

Jeremy said, "Hey, Mark, feeling nervous?"

Without hesitation he said, "Not in the least. Has Bridget arrived yet?"

"Not yet," said Jeremy. "Got a message on my mobile that they're running a little behind."

_Of course they are_ , Mark thought with some amusement.

Hugh and Nick came up from the car park, flanking Mark on each side; the four groomsmen were dressed very similarly to Mark, only they lacked the vest and their ties were a slightly thinner strip of fabric.

"I'd be nervous as all hell," said Hugh.

"Wouldn't catch me at an altar, and you're crazy to do it again," said Nick, though Mark saw the upturned corner of his mouth and knew the man was kidding. "Of course, that child _is_ one in a million."

"Agreed," said Giles. "Couldn't be happier for you, Mark."

At that moment Malcolm emerged from the church. "Mark, son, I've been told to tell you to come on in and wait in the vestry." 

"Can't run the risk of your seeing her when she arrives," reminded Jeremy in a confidential tone. "Women are very touchy about these things."

In all truthfulness, Mark didn't want to see her until her father walked her down the aisle, and it had nothing to do with superstitions of bad luck. He couldn't wait for that moment to see her wearing her undoubtedly beautiful dress, her veil shading her features; couldn't wait for that veil to be lifted to reveal her face, which would undoubtedly be glowing, her blue eyes sparkling, and, if he was not mistaken, glossy with tears of happiness.

"Right," was all he said aloud.

Mark went in through the door and was immediately overwhelmed at the decorations that had been put into place: cobalt blue ribbons tied into elaborate bows on the ends of each pew, and vases of beautiful white roses decorating nearly ever surface possible. He headed down the aisle and was met by the vicar, who had chosen vestments to match the décor, white with blue trimmings. "Mr Darcy, if you'll come with me, we'll keep you back here until the bride arrives and settles in. Don't want to risk a chance meeting before the ceremony."

Mark fought a smile. Seemed that women weren't the only ones that were touchy about these things.

It felt like an eternity, sitting in the vestry, surrounded by racks of vestments and reproductions of famous religious-themed paintings; the longer Mark sat back there, the more he actually did start to feel nervous. He glanced down at his watch, saw to his surprise that there were only ten minutes remaining until the ceremony was supposed to begin, at noon.

The door swung open and only then did he hear the low murmur of voices coming in from the church proper. It was Hugh, and he was smiling.

"Never fear, the girls are here."

Mark let out a sigh of relief; it was not that he thought she'd changed her mind and called things off, but knowing Bridget's penchant for attracting difficulties, he was excessively reassured to know she was actually on the premises.

"They've just arrived, and they're all tucked away where you can't see them, ready to step into formation when needed. So I thought it might be a good time for you to give me the ring, so I can give it back to you during the ceremony."

The broad smile that had taken up residence on Mark's face vacated very quickly as he realised he had not in fact grabbed the rings from his dressing table.

"What is it?" asked Hugh.

"The rings. I left the rings at home."

Hugh's own face fell. "In _London_? We're screwed."

"No, at my parents'."

Recovering a bit, Hugh said, "Well, okay, T minus eight minutes and counting, surely your uncle has a lead foot and can get there and back—"

Mark heard a gentle throat-clearing from the direction of the door. They both looked up to see Nick, and in his hand was a small velvet box. "Just been to give Tom your ring. You're very lucky I have kept rein on my senses today, unlike the two of you," he said in a teasing tone.

Mark was beyond grateful, and also knew that were it anyone but his beloved Bridget he was marrying, Nick would not have been teasing. "Oh, Nick. Can't thank you enough."

"Don't mention it. Now come on. Time to line up." Nick poked his head back out the door, and signalled presumably to the missing groomsmen.

"You don't have to make it sound like we're about to be executed by firing squad," said Hugh playfully.

………

Jeremy and Giles joined them in the vestry, and they filed out one at a time—Giles, Jeremy, Nick, Hugh and Mark—then came around to take their place at the altar, Hugh close to Mark's side, and the other men separated from them by a very small distance. The crowd hushed to silence and the place seemed almost eerily quiet. And then…

…nothing.

Nothing for what seemed far too long, so long that Mark became a little worried, though was careful not to show it. His attention was focused on the far end of the aisle, as was everyone's, and he could have sworn he heard a rustling commotion, before seeing what appeared to be a small girl.

_Ah yes_ , he thought; it was Magda and Jeremy's Constance, the flower girl, holding a basket and dressed in a pretty, frilly dress with a wide, dark blue sash at her waist, her auburn hair all done up elaborately with white rosebuds and blue ribbons. At seeing that she had garnered so much attention, she beamed a smile, revealing a missing tooth at the front, at which a murmur of chuckling washed over the assembled.

Suddenly the sound of a violin pierced the silence with a beautiful rendition of the traditional wedding march, and Constance tossed a look over her shoulder. Apparently having been given the all-clear, she looked forward again, that smile still in place, then started walking forward in a step-stop processional manner, grabbing a handful of flower petals from her basket and tossing them in front of her at every step.

When she got halfway down the aisle, he saw Magda appear in the threshold, who then began to process forward as well. The dresses, which he had only heard descriptions of, were beautiful; deep, jewel blue, satin, ankle-length and of classic lines flaring down from the hips, with off-the-shoulder sleeves. Magda's hair was swept up, and around her neck was the simple string of pearls Bridget had gifted her with the night before; from her ears hung the elegant pearl drop earrings that had come with it. She was holding a small but lovely bouquet at her waist, also of white roses and dark blue ribbons.

Then came Jude, looking equally similarly elegant, her dark hair also up off of her shoulders; shortly after her, Sharon followed. Mark had never seen her look classier, or prettier.

Next appeared Tom, who looked debonair in a suit very similar to what the groomsmen were wearing, except that the colour of Tom's suit matched the ladies' dresses. His cravat was of white silk, and he was also carrying a small bouquet. There was a rise in the number of murmurs in the audience as he processed down; a male 'maid of honour' would certainly be the talk of Grafton Underwood for weeks to come.

Tom reached his position parallel to where Hugh stood; the violin went silent, and then Mark saw it, the outline of two figures at the end of the aisle. The violinist then began again, Wagner's famous _Bridal Chorus_ , and that was when the two of them stepped forward and into the overhead light.

Colin Jones looked about as Mark expected him to, a little ruddy from nerves and smiling very proudly, but it was Bridget from whom he could not tear his gaze. Her dress was ivory silk and strapless, flaring out in a flattering A-line from her waist to the floor, trailing behind her in a modest train; the bodice was embroidered with delicate floral patterns and embedded with a peppering of shining stones that twinkled as she moved forward. She had one hand tucked in her father's elbow, the other holding her gorgeous bouquet. He could tell that her hair was also swept up and cascading down in a tumble of curls, but the veil covered all further detail.

As father and daughter got within steps of the altar, Mark no longer heard the music nor was he aware of anything around him except _her_ ; he watched as her father lifted the veil and pushed it back over her head to reveal the extent of her loveliness. His eyes were first caught by the sparkling tiara nestled amongst her loose golden curls, which shone like the silk of her dress; by the flow of soft veil falling back from the crown of her head and past her shoulders; by the lovely string of pearls he'd given her, encircling her neck. However, it was when he saw her face, the smile on her pale pink lips, the glittering blue of her eyes, that he realised his imaginings did not compare to the reality of how absolutely, ethereally stunning she looked.

He realised he felt stuck in time, stuck in place, not due to any nerves on his part but just from being overwhelmed at the sight of her. He saw her father nod to him, and he nodded back, accepting the trust her father was placing in him in taking Bridget for his wife.

The vicar began to speak: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation…"

Thanks to the rehearsal, he knew what was expected for him to do and say, and he was very grateful for that, because it made having his attention so distracted by her that much easier to handle. He had indeed been right the day before about not being able to keep his eyes off of her; he wanted very much to remember every moment of this day, but he also wanted to memorise the way she looked.

They exchanged their vows, ones that were identical to one another and that had replaced references of 'obey' to 'respect' and had obliterated the notion of 'serve'; after all, what human rights barrister worth his salt would expect to get away with having his wife, his equal partner in life, saying such a thing to him? Her voice was slightly shaky and her eyes quite moist with tears, but she seemed determined to get through the ceremony without shedding them.

It wasn't until he took her hand that he realised just how much she was physically trembling; as he pledged his troth to her, he held her hand and stroked the back of it in a reassuring manner with his thumb, smiling down at her with the love he felt for her. It might have been his imagination, but she did seem to calm enough to pledge her own troth without stumbling on the words or her voice cracking once.

It then came time for the exchange of rings, and Hugh came up close to him to hand it to him. He took the platinum band and slipped it into place on her left hand, holding her gaze as he said to her:

"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow…"

She smiled, and as she did so a tear spilled down over her cheek unbidden, but he thought it made her look that much lovelier as she returned the pledge, taking the ring from Tom, and sliding it onto Mark's finger.

The two of them then kneeled as prompted, joining their right hands together; the vicar continued to speak, but he hardly heard it for being lost in her eyes, beaming with happiness and shining bright blue, until he heard the words that prompted a cheer among the congregated:

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder." 

Raising a thumb to dry that tear, he reached forward and lovingly kissed her for the first time as his wife; he heard quiet, polite laughter as the vicar said with some amusement, "I suppose you've figured out you may kiss the bride." He chuckled, pulling away to look at her, still holding her cheek tenderly. 

The vicar continued speaking, asking that the two of them sign the wedding documents, which he presented to them as they remained kneeling. They did so, Hugh and Tom adding their signatures as witnesses, before the newlyweds rose to their feet and turned to the congregated. Mark looked out among the sea of happy faces, and felt so very proud; he thought, and hoped Bridget thought the same, that all of the aggravation and frustration had been worth this sight.

The vicar then said in a commanding voice, "May I present to you: Mr and Mrs Darcy."

There was a raucously joyous noise, and the violinist started in again, this time with the Mendelssohn's _Wedding March_ for them to depart. He held out his elbow to her and almost shyly she slipped her hand through the crook of it as they retreated together from the altar.

When they got to the vestibule, he knew they would have mere moments before the bridesmaids, groomsmen and the whole of the congregation would follow, so he took her in his arms and briefly kissed her again. "You look so incredibly beautiful," he said softly.

She smiled and reached up to kiss him in return when Mark heard Tom's voice: "On each other already. Crikey."

Bridget began to chuckle, then turned and playfully swatted at Tom before he pulled her into an embrace. "You looked so gorgeous and perfect up there, Bridgeline," he said, his own eyes misty, "and I was so proud to stand up there with you."

Mark felt a hand on his shoulder; he turned to see Hugh, big grin in place. "Congratulations." Hugh held out a hand as if for a shake, which Mark refused, instead giving his long-time mate a hug.

"Thank you," said Mark.

They were shortly thereafter joined by Magda, Jude and Sharon, who hugged their newly-married friend within an inch of her life; Mark enjoyed much more sedate congratulations from Jeremy, Giles, and Nick.

"As weddings go," said Nick in typically solemn fashion, "that one was not so bad." Mark caught the grin though, and he smiled at his uncle. "Congratulations, my boy. And to you, dear child—" He turned to Bridget to take her hands then planted a kiss on her cheek. "—I know you'll make this nephew of mine very happy. You already have."

The rest of the congregation filed out into the courtyard as further embraces, pecks on cheeks and congratulations were exchanged; when the entire church had been emptied, it was time for, in Tom's words, the ritualistic assault by rice.

They all filed out two at a time—Magda and Jeremy, Jude and Giles, Sharon and Nick and then Tom and Hugh (he could hear the chuckles as the two of them descended the church stairs)—before Mark extended his elbow to his bride once more and looked at her. He couldn't resist, though, bending for one more stolen kiss, this one a little longer than the last. "Need to give them all a moment," he explained, "to get primed and ready to throw."

She giggled. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too," he replied, then took in a breath; the rest of the day would be non-stop, at least until after the wedding breakfast. With another beamingly broad smile, he asked, "Shall we, wife?"

"We shall," she replied, her smile equally broad, "husband."

She squeezed her hand on his arm before headed out the doors together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Royal Claddagh](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claddagh_ring).
> 
> [Elsa Peretti's heart with pearls](http://www.tiffany.com/jewelry/necklaces-pendants/elsa-peretti-open-heart-pearl-necklace-23461994?fromGrid=1&origin=search&trackpdp=search&fromcid=-1&trackgridpos=27). ♥
> 
> [How to tie an ascot](https://www.gentlemansgazette.com/how-to-tie-ascot-cravat/).
> 
> [English wedding traditions](http://weddingdetails.com/lore-tradition/england/).
> 
> [From the Book of Common Prayer](http://www.pemberley.com/janeinfo/compraym.html) (traditional ceremony).
> 
> [Bridget's dress, sort of](http://i98.photobucket.com/albums/l252/sweetsendwedding/D039as.jpg).


	3. Chapter 3

_The day itself: ceremony (con't.)_

The pelting by rice was nothing compared to the tackle the two of them got afterwards by Pamela Jones. "That was beautiful, simply beautiful," she gushed, squeezing Mark tight to her with one arm and her daughter with the other. "And you two looked absolutely perfect up there together! Absolutely stunningly perfect. Did I know, or did I know this was meant to be?" She looked to Una, who stood there with a handkerchief to her face, dabbing away tears of joy as she nodded.

"Yes, m'dear," said Colin Jones. "You knew." He moved to embrace his daughter. "My darling girl," he said. "Never seen you look lovelier, or happier."

"Thanks, Dad," she said, her voice muffled.

Mark had in turn been greeted by his own father with a hearty hug, then by his mother, who planted a kiss on his cheek and hugged him tight. "That was perfect," she said.

"I certainly don't mind continuing to hear that word with regards to today," he said, holding his mother close to him before she broke away to give her new daughter-in-law a hug and a kiss.

"Bridget, I think you know already how happy we are to have you as part of our family," Elaine said with a smile, "but it bears repeating." Malcolm nodded in agreement.

"Thank you," she said, looking to Malcolm with another smile. "I'll never get tired of hearing it."

"And Mark, of course, we're absolutely thrilled to have you as part of ours," piped in Pamela.

"Couldn't imagine giving Bridget away to anyone more worthy," said Colin, his arm around his wife's shoulder.

"Auntie Bridget?"

The two of them both looked down at the sound of a child's voice; it was Constance, whose beautiful little hairdo had become slightly untidy. She looked very serious in her mission, holding out a small bouquet of roses to Bridget. "I'm s'posed to give this to you to throw."

Mark realised her full bouquet, roses and ribbons on a near-epic scale, would have needed quite a heft to toss back to the waiting pool of ladies, who had all congregated together and were looking positively feral. With a smile, Mark accepted her bridal bouquet so that she could take the one from Constance to throw. "Thank you, Constance."

"Auntie Bridget?" she asked again.

"Yes, dear?"

"You look _really_ pretty."

Bridget smiled, her eyes tearing up again. "So you do, Constance."

The little girl beamed proudly, then bounced off to where her mother and father were standing.

Bridget turned so that her back was to the crowd. She looked to Mark before saying under her breath, "I'm so afraid I'm going to… pop out."

He drew his brows together.

"Of my dress," she elaborated, looking pointedly down her front.

He tried not to laugh out loud, because he didn't want to attract attention. "I could shore you up if you like," he offered in return.

She chuckled. "Later, dear."

With that she pitched the bouquet behind her, managing to not in fact pop out, then turned around to see where it had landed. To her surprise it was Tom that held the bouquet, and on his face was a rather stunned look.

The crowd erupted into gales of laughter.

Mark slipped his hand around his new wife's waist, whispered into her ear, "You know, I should have expected nothing less of our wedding," before pecking a kiss on her cheek.

………

_The day itself: celebration_

The weather was wonderfully cooperative, not too uncomfortably hot and sunny while still being lovely and pleasant, and blue skies all around. The wedding party and both sets of parents assembled for photos in the churchyard while the guests made their way to Una's for the reception; Una and Geoffrey's rockery had been chosen because Mark and Bridget had decided they didn't want either of their families to have to deal with managing the whole affair on their children's wedding day, and Una had gladly accepted the task. Bridget also didn't want there to be any hurt feelings on the part of her mother for having it at the Darcys', which, of the two families, would have been the more suitable location. Neutral ground, as it were, seemed a much better decision.

The full group of them had just been posing for one last photo, were dispersing towards their cars when Mark felt Bridget reach for his hand. "I never got a chance to tell you how fantastic you look," she said, raising her gaze to look up at him through her lashes, raising her free hand to brush down along the lapel of his suit coat.

It amazed him even now that her compliments could still make him feel undeserving of them. "I doubt nearly as many eyes were on me as they were on you," he said, "but thank you."

She glanced down again and seemed to notice the tie pin for the first time; a quiet _Oh_ escaped her mouth. "What's this?" she asked, reaching up to touch it. "I didn't know there was a matching pin."

When he explained that there wasn't, explained the provenance of the pin, she looked almost overwhelmed. "That was so sweet of them," she said. "I love that we have matching sparklies."

"We've already got those regardless," he returned, taking her left hand in his, to place a kiss on the ring on her fourth finger, meeting her eyes with his own. On impulse she reached for the nape of his neck with her right hand, and got up on tiptoes to kiss him.

It wasn't until she pulled away from him with a smile on her gorgeously flushed face that he realised the photographer was not only still in place, but had been happily snapping photos during that entire exchange. Bridget followed his gaze, and turned bright red when she saw the man lowering the camera and grinning madly.

"Always like to get some unposed photos," he explained, "and those are going to be among the best I've ever taken."

………

As the door of the car closed behind him, Mark realised it was the first true moment of silence he had experienced all day; Bridget seemed equally relieved for the peace. He settled into the seat of the Bentley, invited Bridget into the crook of his arm, which she accepted gratefully.

"I'm sorry about that back there, with the pictures," she said, raising her head to look up at him. "I thought we were alone. I never would deliberately mortify you in such a way."

He raised his fingers to sweep along the line of her chin, down her throat, across her pearls then along her collarbone to her shoulder. "No need to apologise," he said. "I'm by no means mortified. In fact, I wonder that those photos won't be the best of the lot."

The car, silent in running, lurched forward as they began the trek to the Alconburys' home.

She reached to touch his face, lovingly brushing a thumb along his eyebrow, down along his sideburn. "I can hardly believe it's really real. We're married. _Blimey_."

He nodded, chuckling. "It's really real, and everything was, and I quote, 'perfect'."

She grinned, looking down in that breathstoppingly demure way she had. "I don't think I have ever been happier."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he teased, "because that makes my job awfully difficult for the rest of our lives."

"Oh, hush," she teased, then kissed him again quite at length, squeezing his hand in her own as she did so.

"I almost wish," he said into her ear, holding her close after breaking away, "that we were heading straight for our suite."

She laughed lightly. "Oh, Mark, I never thought a week without—"

"No, no," he said, chuckling. "Not for that. Or rather, not _just_ for that. But with the hustle and bustle already today, and the two of us about to be on centre stage all afternoon, I'm very much looking forward to having you all to myself for more than just a car ride to Una's."

"Oh." She rested her head on his shoulder, and sighed. "I see what you mean." At that moment, the car came to a stop. "It would seem, my darling husband, that we are on."

………

Lunch was delicious, which did not surprise him given that Nick had been riding herd on the menu, and in fact was not to be found at the head table at all; he was busy in the kitchen bossing the caterers around. Bridget was clearly having a blast with her friends, joking about how worried she was that she wouldn't be able to fit into her dress with all the compulsive eating of chocolate she'd done in the last twenty-four hours.

It was partway through lunch when Hugh got to his feet and raised his flute of champagne.

"I don't know what I could say," he began, "that could possibly do my friend Mark justice, that his choice in bride hasn't already accomplished. I admit that I don't know Bridget as well as I know Mark, and certainly haven't known her nearly as long, but like deducing a planet's existence based on indirect evidence, I know the kind of woman she is by the positive, wonderful effects she's had on my friend, something he has needed in his life for a long, long time." A wave of quiet laughter made its way through the assembled family and friends. "So here is to Mark, to Bridget, and to a long and happy future."

"Hear, hear!" shouted someone in the crowd as they all raised their glasses, clinked them together, and sipped.

"Let us not," said Tom, standing suddenly with an impish grin, "forget to acknowledge the positive, wonderful effects Mark has had on my dearest friend Bridget."

"Oh _God_ ," Bridget said, feigning horror, covering her face with her hands.

"She's no longer, for example, smoking two packets a day in a nervous frenzy; not calling me at two in the morning pissed on Chardonnay and crying about fuh—about dating mind games," Tom went on as sporadic chuckles circulated around the tables; thankfully he had not had enough champagne yet to let 'fuckwittage' slip through, "or going on about how she's going to die alone and be found three weeks later half-eaten by Alsatians." The crowd was really laughing now; Bridget had flushed bright pink, and Mark could see her distinctly mouth the words, _I am going to kill you_ as Tom looked her way, even though she was smiling. "She's always welcome to come out for a drink with her Singleton friends anytime she wants, but honestly, we've all known for a while she hasn't needed to look anymore. She'd already found the Mars to her Venus."

"Hurrah!" shouted Jude and Sharon in unison.

"Hurrah!" chimed in Magda and Jeremy, grinning broadly.

"Hurrah!" said the rest of the crowd, lifting their flutes once again and drinking.

Tom went to her, took her hand, and planted a kiss on the back of it. She got to her feet, tears flooding her eyes again as she pulled him into a hug. "I love you, ya big poof," she said, just loud enough for Mark to hear but the rest of the reception could not.

"I love you too, Bridgeline," he said in an equally quiet tone, looking as emotional as Mark had ever seen him. "You are both so lucky to have each other," he added, meeting Mark's eye.

Mark nodded. How well he knew it, and as Bridget took her seat again, he reached forward to kiss her, to which the crowd cheered for them.

"Oh, bugger," said Hugh. "My mobile. Excuse me." He stood, and walked away to take the call.

Speeches apparently over—for which Mark was thankful, as he did not want to be pressed into one; he was excellent at extemporaneous public speaking, except when it came to verbalising his feelings for Bridget—they resumed partaking of the excellent food. Mark noticed that Bridget had barely eaten a thing.

"Darling, you should have more to eat," he said.

"I know," she concurred. "Haven't had a thing all day. My stomach's too nervous."

"There's nothing to be nervous about anymore," he said with a grin. "The hard part's over. It's dancing, cake, then we're off. So you should at least try." He brought a forkful of her food to her mouth. "Besides. Nick will be heartbroken if you don't clear your plate. He'll take it as a personal affront."

She laughed. "Well, when you put it like that…" She opened her mouth and took in the food.

For some reason, this made the rest of their guests break out in applause again. He shared a look with his bride, then asked quietly, "Why am I starting to feel like a performing seal?"

She burst into giggles, then made a seal-barking sound under her breath, which caused him to laugh too. He took her hand, looked at her shining face, and said without thinking, "God, I adore you."

The guests let out a collective, "Awwww."

He felt heat flood his face; he would be very thankful when he was no longer under a microscope. From her expression, she knew he felt this way, squeezing his hand back.

Hugh returned, looking grave as he took his seat again. "I have to leave."

"What?" asked Mark.

"Why?" asked Bridget in unison.

"Seems they're short-staffed and I have somehow found myself on call, despite being told I was not available today. I'm so sorry."

"Can you at least stay to finish lunch?" asked Bridget. "Have a dance?"

"Yes," he said, "and no. I'm so sorry."

"Oh," Bridget said plaintively.

It pained Mark to see Bridget look so sad on this, her self-proclaimed happiest of days; it seemed that it pained Hugh as well, because he then added, "Ah, to hell with them. I'll stay long enough to have one dance with the bride, and blame it on traffic."

The transformation of her sadness back to joy was delightful to watch, and she radiated a smile at him. "Thank you, Hugh."

"Yes," added Mark, looking at his friend, "thank you."

"Can't bloody well disappoint the bride now, can I?" he said.

"Indeed not," said Mark, turning back to look at his bride, reaching and clasping her hand again.

The same string quartet that had played at Mark's parents' Ruby Wedding had luckily been available for their own wedding, and it was the sudden change in the tempo of the music, as much as the appearance of the waitstaff to clear away the plates, that made Mark realise that the meal was drawing to a close.

"To our dear family and friends," came the booming voice of Malcolm Darcy, "I would like to thank you all for joining us today to celebrate our son's marriage to a very, very fine girl indeed, Colin and Pam's dearest Bridget." There was a polite, quiet round of applause. "As is tradition," he said over the tail end of the applause, "the first dance is reserved for bride and groom. Mark, Bridget dear, come on down."

Mark rose from his seat, then turned to take her hand and helped her to her feet, as the guests politely clapped again. He led her to the dance floor, a patio of smoothed paving stones, then took her in his arms, waiting for the music to begin, waiting to see the look on her face when she recognised the tune he'd requested for this dance.

The music began, and he stepped forward to lead her in a traditional slow dance. He saw that very distinct look on her face of struggling to place the tune: brows furrowed, lips pursed. When it finally came to her, she looked up into his eyes with a beaming smile.

"Billy Joel. 'Just the Way You Are'," she said quietly.

"Well," he said, "I do."

"Thought we had that bit already," she replied teasingly.

"Don't mind saying it a hundred times," he returned.

She drew in close to him, closer than was probably proper for a wedding dance, pressing her temple to his cheek as best she could with the tiara and veil; however, another distinct sound of approval washed over the crowd.

"Under a microscope indeed," she said quietly, at which he chuckled.

"Trained seals," he reminded.

She giggled.

"I hope," he said quite seriously after a moment, "that in my darkest hour of despair, I can call up this moment, this entire day, to comfort me."

She squeezed the arm she had around his waist. "I hope you will never have such an hour."

All too soon the song drew to a close, and there was a round of polite applause as they stopped dancing; he drew away from her, then bent to kiss her quickly on the lips. Within moments the music began again with a new song, and other couples joined them on the dance floor, Mark felt a tap on his shoulder, turned to see a waiting Hugh.

"May I have the honour?" he said in an overly formal manner.

"Of course you can, you big nut," said Mark with a smile. "Don't leave without saying goodbye."

"Roger that."

Hugh swept Bridget into his arms and they began to dance, each with a smile on their face as they talked to one another. Mark in turn felt a tap on his shoulder again, and turned to see Sharon smiling at him. "Wanna dance?" she asked.

He said nothing, just smiled and took her hand, and began leading her around the floor.

"We meant what we said back there," said Sharon.

"We?"

"Well, when Tom was talking, he was rather speaking for all of us. We might not have been as nice to you as you deserved when we first met you, but when we saw how hard Bridget—" She stopped suddenly. "Crikey, I've had too much to drink. Ignore me."

"No, finish what you were going to say."

She rolled her dark brown eyes, blew a non-existent strand of hair from her eyes; she clearly knew there was no getting out of this. "When we saw how hard Bridget took it when you two split up, we kind of knew things were serious. For her. About you."

He smiled. "Well, let's be thankful then for everything that happened in Thailand—as that was the catalyst our getting back together."

"And showing the lot of us the sort of man you really were."

He felt another tap on his shoulder—realising this was likely his fate for the rest of the afternoon—and when he turned, he found Tom standing there waiting.

"May I cut in?" asked Tom.

Without thinking, Mark stepped back, expecting Sharon to be swept off by Tom, but instead, felt Tom swing himself into a dance. Couples around them started to titter; after the initial surprise, Mark could not help grinning himself. Only Tom would be bold enough to try such a thing.

"I realised this might be my only chance to dance with you, Mark," he said with a smile, feeling Tom's hand on his upper arm, ever proper and formal. "I had to jump at it."

Mark was aware that Tom thought he was attractive, but the manner in which Tom had done this did nothing but amuse Mark. It was surely a sign that Mark had come a long, long way from the uptight, humour-deficient man he had once been.

"So long as you know you'll never have a chance with me," Mark joked in return.

Tom looked shocked, then laughed. "Oh, the heartbreak," he said with an air of melodrama. "I shall, however, bear it as best I can."

"So come on, let's get on with it," Shaz said, sweeping up to the two of them, full steam ahead. "The boys need their fair shake, too."

Mark was perplexed. "What?"

"Garter!" said Shaz, throwing her arms up, showering Jude's head with bits from the bouquet she was still toting around. "Time to _retrieve_ the garter."

He knew the tradition, had seen it at the wedding receptions he'd attended, and thought it rather a tacky, salacious act for something as precious as this. He looked to Bridget, who was fighting a laugh.

"I'm game," said Bridget, "and I have on one to keep and one to give away."

He couldn't believe it. She had planned for it!

Shaz, Jude and Tom started to chant "Gar-ter! Gar-ter!" which attracted the attention of the attendees nearby… especially the single men. He saw Giles grinning like mad; cousin Simon red-faced and beaming; and there was Hugh, practically rubbing his hands together with glee.

Even the music had stopped.

Jude came running forward with a folding chair, placed it facing away from the group of men who had gathered. "Sit."

Afraid of what might happen if he didn't, he sat. Bridget came up to him and planted her shoe on the chair between his legs, looking down at him with a grin.

"Lift away," she said quietly.

He placed his hands on her ankle, ensconced in sheer white hose; he then used his thumbs to lift its hem, eliciting hoots from a few in the crowd. He exposed her knee; he glanced up to her, saw the grin had not left her face. She was even laughing in spontaneous bursts, glowing with the attention she had.

She was enjoying this; he figured he might as well, too.

He walked his fingers up over her knee to the delight of those gathered around, a wide grin on his own face. She looked a little surprised at his willing participation, and, still grinning, she winked at him.

He heard someone clap and holler.

His fingers met the silk and lace band, and edged over to pull it down; it surprised him how far up her leg she'd put the thing, just over halfway up her thigh, and apparently there was yet a second one even farther up. He couldn't imagine how it must have appeared, to be elbow-deep in her wedding dress, but he was sure someone in that crowd was snapping copious photos. He eased the garter over her knee and past her calf, taking care to trail his fingers with a sly wink back up at her.

He watched her mouth the word, "Later."

It was white silk with a blue ribbon running down the centre, and white lace trimming the edge. As he held the prize aloft, the men began to chant again.

"Just throw it," Bridget said, her foot still between his legs, her hosiery-clad knee and shin still exposed. "Toss it behind you."

He did.

Bridget's mouth formed an O, and she raised her hands just as it transformed into an enormous smile. Mark swivelled in his chair and fought the urge to laugh himself:

The garter was squarely in Nick's hand. His lips were pursed, but Mark could see the very edges turned up in amusement.

Everyone applauded. Bridget righted her dress, then went over to him to peck a kiss onto his cheek; Mark was close on her heels.

"I promise you I was not aiming for you," said Mark.

"I'm not so sure you don't have eyes in the back of your head," he said in return, though Mark watched as he tucked the garter into his trouser pocket.

………

As the music continued, Mark felt himself next claimed by his mother, who beamed up at him proudly the entire time, her eyes brimming with tears of joy. "This is one of the best days of my life," she said, "seeing you so obviously happy, in love… after achieving so much in your life to be proud of, you deserve to have it all rounded out with a wife who deserves you in return."

He felt a little emotional at her proclamation, even as it didn't surprise him. He usually looked to his father for professional guidance; his mum, however, had been the one he consulted in matters of the heart, not that any other woman he'd discussed with Elaine had touched him in the way Bridget had.

As he was dancing with his mum, he happened to catch a glimpse of Bridget—not that the bride at a wedding was ever terribly difficult to find—dancing with her father, and the sight of it made his smile get a little broader, with the way he was looking at her with such love of his little girl, now all grown up and married. She looked equally adoringly up at him.

The song ended, and the couples broke apart to politely clap. Hugh appeared at Mark's side, and Mark left the dance floor with him. "Already said my goodbyes to your lovely bride," he said. "I really do have to go though."

"I'm sorry you can't stay."

"I'm even sorrier," said Hugh. He held out his arms, and once again Mark gave him a quick, firm hug. "Hope you have a lovely honeymoon, though I am starting to wonder if the locale is even going to matter."

"What?"

"Bridget mentioned her friend Jude's pre-wedding idea."

Mark burst out with a laugh even as he felt the heat rise in his skin again. "Ah," he said, quite at a loss for words.

"Anyway," he said with a smile. "Best be off. Take care."

He watched as Hugh walked away, then turned back to the dance floor, scanning the crowd for his new wife. He found her in short order, dancing with his cousin Simon, looking distinctly uneasy. He couldn't imagine why; Simon, a school-aged teen, was shy but rather a nice kid. He decided to rescue her from whatever was bothering her about Simon.

"Darling," he said as he got within earshot. Her eyes met his, and her expression was filled with relief. "I'm told the cake cutting will be happening momentarily. Simon, pardon us."

"O-of course," stammered the young man, flushing red, dropping his hands down in front of him, one hand over the other.

As he led a recovering Bridget away to the edge of the crowd, he slipped a hand around her waist, leaned in close to her. "Darling," he said quietly into her ear, "you look shell-shocked. Are you all right?"

She looked up to Mark. "I'm… um… your cousin." She must have been distracted if she didn't even realise they weren't going straight for the cake.

"What about him?"

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen. Why do you ask?"

"I would have thought a boy that age would have better, er—" She paused, darting her eyes side to side. "Self-control."

Mark became alarmed. "Did he try something with you?"

"Oh, no, not in that sense," she said, looking more her usual self. "More in the sense of… involuntary reactions to the close proximity of a… woman."

Mark tried not to laugh, or even smile, but he was not entirely successful, so to make up for it he pulled her into a quick embrace. "Maybe it's a genetically inheritable trait, being attracted to you."

She giggled and placed a feather-light kiss onto his cheek; he was glad to know she was fully restored. "Come on. What about this cake?"

"It was actually a fib to rescue you," he said, "but we should make the rounds, circulate a little, and see if the cake is, in fact, ready to be cut."

As they walked and did their socialising Bridget was, as always, sparklingly outgoing, even more so today. He let her take the lead in small talk—her strong suit, no doubt—yet when they were between conversations, she leaned into Mark and said, "If I ever again talk about how fantastic it would be to be a celebrity, remind me how taxing this was."

"You're absolutely perfect at this," he said with a smile.

Her lips pulled into a little cupid's bow smile, and she rolled her eyes in a flattered, flirtatious manner; he was struck again with the reality that she was his wife, that he was the luckiest man on the planet.

"Mark Darcy!"

The voice out of nowhere took him by surprise, and when he spun around to find the source, he was met by a tall, grey-haired man with a bulbous nose, spectacles, and a very stern expression. "Robert Abbott," Mark said automatically, holding his hand out to shake it. "Glad to see you could make it."

The man's handshake was firm and decisive. "I appreciate the invitation."

"Hope you're having a good time," said Mark. "May I present to you my new wife, Bridget. Bridget, this is Robert Abbott of Abbott and Abbott, New York and London."

Robert Abbott looked to Bridget with a scrutinising look. To her credit she withstood the inspection without flinching. "It's very nice to meet the woman at last who managed to sway one of the most brilliant legal minds I've known into remaining in London."

He swore Bridget looked proud. "It's nice to meet you too, sir. I hope there are no hard feelings. I'm sure he would have done a fantastic job in New York, but if it's all the same to you, I'm glad he came back. Obviously."

The older man smiled at last; it was, after all, hard not to warm to Bridget. "Not at all. Career's an important thing, but not _the_ most important thing." He held out his hand to take hers, but instead of shaking, he brought the back up to his lips and gallantly kissed it. "Very wise decision, Mark. Congratulations."

"Thank you very much," said Mark, as Bridget smiled sweetly and offered a thanks of her own. "If you'll excuse us," he continued.

"Oh, absolutely."

As they walked away they were approached by Malcolm and Elaine, who advised them that it really was time to cut the cake; the four of them proceeded over to where Pam already stood by the cake, camera in hand, next to the photographer. Also present were Colin and Nick; the former looked happily expectant, while the latter was still inspecting the cake.

"There you are, darling!" said Pam. Mark had never seen her look so excited. "This cake is lovely, isn't it? Not too fancy, just as it should be."

"Is this cake actually chocolate?" asked Nick, looking up to where they all stood.

"No," said Bridget. "Only half of it."

"What? For a wedding cake?" said Nick.

"It's what Bridget wanted," said Pam. 

Nick looked slightly affronted still, but said no more. There was a lot Nick was willing for forgive for Bridget's sake.

With the photographer in place (and Tom on the sidelines, handheld video recorder in hand), Mark and Bridget went around the table before the cake, took the silver cake server in hand, and proceeded to make the first cut together. The small group who had gathered applauded. After they cut out two small pieces, Mark picked up a chunk of the chocolate, Bridget, a square of angel food cake, and proceeded then to feed one another cake.

It may have been that he'd had a little too much champagne himself, or was just concentrating too hard on not getting cake on her sleeve as their arms crossed, but he ended up getting frosting all over the corner of her mouth. She began to laugh, then mockingly accused, "You did that on purpose."

"I did not—" he began, just as she shoved the cake she held into his mouth. He realised then that the piece she had was larger than it looked.

Someone had another glass of fizzy at the ready, and Mark took it happily to wash down the cake before he said in his defence, "If I had done that on purpose, I would have fed you the angel food cake."

"Why?"

He took her wrist and pulled her close to delicately kiss the cake away to the delight of the assembled, then said, "Because I prefer angel food cake, that's why."

Everyone within earshot began to laugh as she turned a fetching shade of crimson and reached up to brush her thumb along his lower lip. She then popped the edge of her thumb into her own mouth with a grin that she then turned onto the crowd.

Bridget then approached Nick and, to Mark's surprise, asked, "Care for a dance?"

Nick had the decency to mask his obvious astonishment, as did Mark as Nick held out a hand to take Bridget's and saw a smile on Nick's face; Nick was just not the dancing kind. He watched as Nick manoeuvred her around the small dance floor with a skill that Mark did not expect. 

Mark felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked over to see Colin Jones, smiling wistfully at his daughter before glancing up at Mark.

"Mr Jones," said Mark.

"Mark, happiest day of my life," he said. "And it's Colin."

Mark looked down sheepishly. "If you insist."

"So happy for the both of you," Colin continued. "Always nice to see two people who love each other make it work."

"Thank you," said Mark. Turning back to Colin, he continued with, "And thank you for helping to make her the wonderful woman she is."

Mark saw a little smile cross her father's lips. "I know she's not perfect—who among us is?—but she makes me proud. Always has."

"Thank you again, Colin," he said. "Your daughter is in good hands."

"Of that I have no doubt," said Colin, his smile growing broader. "You'll be heading off soon, I wager?"

Mark nodded. "Not right away, but soon enough."

"Hope you have a lovely honeymoon," he said. "Hardly matters where you go for these things, anyway, as it's not really the location that's important."

Had the comment come from anyone but Bridget's father, he might have suspected the comment had a double meaning, as it obviously had for Hugh. Mark just smiled and quietly agreed before Mr Jones advised he was wandering off to make sure his wife wasn't getting into too much trouble.

The dance ended and Nick led Bridget back to her husband, whom she greeted with a grin. "You never told me your uncle was such a good dancer," she said.

"I never knew that he was," replied Mark, slipping a hand around her waist without even thinking. "Not that I would have occasion to know first hand."

"I don't know. You looked quite dapper out there with Tom," teased Bridget, leaning into Mark.

"I rarely dance," said Nick. "Only under very special circumstances."

"Clearly there aren't many of those, then," Mark said.

"Quite right." Nick smoothed down the front of his suit. "So I suppose the two of you will be departing soon?"

Bridget looked up to Mark expectantly. "Will we?"

He smiled; he was starting to half-seriously feel like they were trying to get rid of the two of them, and she still had no idea where he'd planned their honeymoon.

"Soon enough," Mark replied mysteriously.

She got up on her toes and gave him a peck. "I'm going to go find Shaz and then find the ladies'," she said quietly. "A girl needs help with all this fabric."

Mark chuckled. "I'll wait right here for you."

As soon as she was out of earshot, Nick said, "You'll need to keep an eye on your wife's friends."

Mark looked at him, shocked. "Why do you say that?"

"Tom asking you to dance? And those girlfriends of hers… such language. Such _opinions_."

Mark chuckled. He was not in the least taken aback by Nick's thoughts on her friends. "I know better than to come between her and her self-styled Urban Family," he said. "I'm too young and too newly-married to die."

Nick merely furrowed his brows and pursed his lips; Mark knew better than to take his affront too seriously. 

"Mark! Where is that darling wife of yours?"

Mark knew even before turning that it was Tom, and he smiled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"If you must know," said Mark, who saw Jude had also appeared, "she went to the loo."

Jude grinned, then looked from face to face in that small gathering. "All of you, stay right here. I'll be right back." She bounded off towards a table filled with champagne flutes; Mark watched as she corralled one of the stewards for a tray, then began placing flutes upon it. He had no idea what she was up to, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

He also noticed Bridget and Sharon returning from the direction of the house; with help, the loo must not have been as difficult as it could have been. Sharon looked a little pink in the face; he suspected she and the champagne had already become very intimately acquainted.

"Hey," Sharon said as they came nearer, just as Jude presented them with a tray of drinks. "What's going on here?"

"Have a drink. Tom has a special toast he wants to do," said Jude. As she handed one to Nick, she said, "You want to stay, you can."

"How kind," he said drolly, but even still, stayed for the toast; perhaps he thought Mark needed the moral support.

With each of them now holding a flute aloft, Tom spoke. "Our little group of friends is a fairly tight, fairly close one, more like a family than some families are. We love each other, we care about each other and we are there to support each other whenever needed." He turned to Mark. "Now that you're married, Bridget's a part of your family, and you're a part of hers… all of hers. So, Mark, what I'm trying to say is, welcome, officially, to our little family, too."

Mark was touched. He knew at first that her friends hadn't thought much of him, and he wasn't sure what he'd thought of them, but after being thrown together to try to rescue Bridget from prison, he had learned how deep their bonds as friends were… and they had learned there was more to him than a snooty, stiff barrister.

"Hear, hear," said Sharon, bringing her glass to her lips, and taking in the whole thing in one swallow. "Low levels of fuckwittage helped your cause immensely, too."

She was pissed and he knew it, so he just laughed, but he saw Nick visibly bristle. "'Fuckwittage'?" he asked.

"Dating mind games," supplied Tom with a grin.

Jude snorted a laugh.

"So Bridget says you can really cut a rug," said Sharon, looking directly at Nick. "Wanna dance?"

Nick again looked stunned. "Thank you, but I must decline. I had one dance reserved for this wedding and I'm afraid that's already past."

Mark saw Bridget smiling as Sharon said, "Well, bugger. Would have been nice to dance with someone who could actually, you know, _dance_."

"You wound me, Shazzer darling," said Tom, feigning an arrow shot to the heart. "Maybe you could persuade Mark. He's pretty damn talented." He paused for dramatic effect, then added, "On the dance floor."

Nick must have thought no better of Bridget's friends, to judge by his expression.

Mark was about to offer to take Sharon for another spin—seeing as their previous dance was interrupted by Tom—when the faint sound of a rapid but consistent thudding sound approaching. 

"What on earth—?" said Jude. "What is that sound?"

"That," said Mark, "would be our ride."

Bridget turned to Mark, her eyes wide with surprise as the sound got louder. Everyone under the marquee had stopped to try to zero in on it. "Is that… is that a helicopter?"

"You, my darling, are a very clever woman. No wonder I married you."

The helicopter, thunderingly loud now, came down in the field just beyond the Alconburys' property—Mark had already cleared it with the owner of that patch of wide-open space—and the propeller came to a stop.

"Oh my God!" Bridget said. "What about our stuff?"

"In the boot of the car, remember?" he said. "Passports and all."

She smiled broadly.

At the arrival of the helicopter, the guests (and rightly so) seemed to sense the bride and groom might be about to leave; the music had stopped and everyone's attention had redirected to them.

"Everyone," said Mark, "I would like to thank you all so much for sharing this day with us. I hope you're having a wonderful time, and hope you continue to do so, but as you may have guessed, it is time for us to depart." The murmurs were a mix of amusement and approval.

"We won't get a chance to properly deal with them until we're back, but I want to say right now, thank you all for your gifts," spoke up Bridget; leave it to her to think to do so. "You're all very good to the both of us."

Pam Jones appeared out of nowhere and pulled her daughter into a tight hug. Colin was close behind, as were Mark's own parents, who had thoughtfully come bearing their suitcases from the car.

"Have a wonderful time," said Mark's mother, as she came to give him a hug and a kiss. "I can't wait to hear all about it."

"I can't wait to see what he's got planned for us," Bridget said excitedly.

Elaine smiled smugly.

After quick hugs with the family, they made their way to where the helicopter sat in the field. Mark shook the pilot's hand and with that, he helped Bridget up into the passenger area. She settled in as the pilot loaded their bags in, then gave them each a headset to muffle the sound and hear what the pilot had to say. He helped to get her safety harness fastened around the silk and chiffon of her dress, then got himself buckled in.

"This must be the most ludicrous look ever," she said, gingerly putting the headset over her hair, carefully avoiding the tiara and the veil. 

He had to admit the look was a bizarre juxtaposition, but as always, she looked charming, and he told her so. She smiled and took his hand.

As the rotors fired up once more, they turned to wave out the window, then watched as their guests, the marquee and the Alconburys' house got smaller and smaller as they lifted up into the air. He felt her squeeze his hand tight, before looking at him with a thoroughly loving smile.

His spirits felt as high and light as their transport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garters: [an extra one to toss](http://www.silkgarters.co.uk/and-a-matching-garter-to-toss--128).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a _very strong_ M / R.)

_The day itself: conclusion_

It was a joy to watch Bridget looking out below at the countryside with the thrill of a child as she tried to discern exactly where they were heading. Instead of the hour-plus car trip it would have taken, they were descending to land in the English countryside in what felt like no time at all. The moment she saw the grand façade of the manor they had vacationed in the previous year, when she had so suddenly taken ill after returning from Thailand, she turned to him with a grin. "This is perfect," she said, shouting a little to be heard over the sound of the rotor. "I can finally luxuriate like I wanted to then."

"Absolutely, though we're here for just a night," he said. "This isn't our final destination, love."

"It's not?"

He shook his head, smirking. "Nope."

The helicopter touched down in a field relatively close to the place and once again powered down, the pilot explaining that he did not wish to send the bride into her honeymoon all wind-whipped and bedraggled, which she appreciated. After the blades stopped moving, he was lifting her down from the fuselage and they were greeted by a smiling youth dressed in his bellhop livery.

"Welcome back, Mr Darcy, and the new Mrs Darcy," he said, bowing politely at the waist. "Let me get your bags." The pilot handed then down to the boy. "Just the three bags, then?"

"Yes," said Mark, having visions of the multiple bags Bridget would have brought if he hadn't packed for her.

"Right this way, then," he said, leading them to a deluxe little golf cart that looked more like a miniature vintage car than anything, in order to take them to the hotel proper.

"Did you get the same room?" she asked, leaning into him as the little cart rode over the smooth grounds.

"Sadly, I did not," said Mark, watching disappointment flit over her face before adding, "I thought the occasion warranted the honeymoon suite."

"Well, in that case, I think I might manage just fine," she said, looking up to him, then continued in a quieter tone, "You know, Mark, you haven't kissed me since we cut the cake. That's far too long a time between kisses on our wedding day."

He chuckled and was about to oblige when the cart came to an abrupt stop. "Sorry," said the bellboy with profuse sincerity. "The brakes are a little touchy since the service. We're here."

Mark smiled. "In a bit, I will more than make it up to you, I promise," he said, then got down from his seat in order to help her down too.

There was something unreal, something almost out of time itself, about ascending the stairs as they did, arm in arm, he in his formal suit, she in her breathtaking dress, then being greeted by even more of the liveried staff, who respectfully bowed as they passed by. The smiles that other guests bestowed upon them made him proud to have her on his arm. The concierge—amazingly, the same man from the previous year—smiled as they approached. "Mr and Mrs Darcy. Welcome back to our humble establishment."

"We're very glad to be back."

"Congratulations on this happiest of days," he said, beaming at the two of them. "And may I compliment you, ma'am, on what an absolute vision you are."

Bridget flushed pink. "Thank you very much. This _is_ the happiest of all my days."

"Roger will show you up to your suite. We hope you find it to your liking," he said, "and may your stay with us, while much shorter, be memorable for much better reasons this time."

Bridget laughed. "I hope so, too."

They followed the young man, Roger, to the lift amidst continued appreciative looks and congratulations by others they happened to pass by, which they politely thanked these strangers for. After a short ride to the top floor, he then led them to a door at the very end of the hall, and set the suitcases down. He handed Mark the key and said with a grin, "It's all ready and waiting for you."

He watched Roger enter the lift once more before he turned back to Bridget, looking at her intently: even though it had been a very long and very tiring day, she still looked as beautiful as she had when her father had first drawn her veil back, soft waves framing her face, pearls encircling her pale neck, and that tiara glittering like a galaxy of stars in her hair.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

He realised he had been standing in silence for far too long. "Not in the least," he said. "Just wanting to remember this moment in every detail."

She smiled.

He reached forward, unlocking the door and pushing it open. She looked in and her eyes got wide as she saw the enormous four-poster wrought-iron bed, ivory décor, broad window with a vista of the entire park. "Mark, it's—Ah!"

At that moment, he bent down to sweep her into his arms—one around her waist, one under her knees—before carrying her over the threshold into the room, then kissing her thoroughly, striding across the room to set her on the bed. As he stood, she looked up at him with unmistakeable adoration as she took his hand in hers.

"Let me get our bags," he said quietly, "and close the door."

She brought the backs of his fingers up to her lips then nodded. 

Quick as he could he went into the hall to get the suitcases and set them just inside, then closed the door, but not before hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob. He was then free to be back at her side, and he sat next to her, raising a hand to run fingertips along her jawline.

"Hello, Mrs," he said quietly.

She only smiled, gazing as deeply into his eyes as he was into hers; he leaned forward to press his lips to hers, then covered her mouth with his, giving her those kisses he owed her, cradling her head with the palm of his hand before sweeping it down along her neck to her shoulder.

When he broke away, he pressed his cheek to hers and said unsteadily into her ear, "You look so incredibly beautiful in this dress… but I think it's time we got you out of it."

He heard her chuckle in his ear. "You're kind of overdressed, yourself."

He pressed a quick kiss into the hair by her cheek before rearing back. He brushed his hands from her shoulders to the top edge of her dress, running his fingers over the brocade on the bodice just over her breasts, then around to find the zipper that was very discreetly hidden under the seam on the side.

"Mark, wait," she said, almost apologetically. "I have something special to wear for you." 

He stopped, meeting her eyes again, then smiled and nodded, understanding. It was certainly not their first time, but it was the first time as a married couple, and he knew she wanted everything to be perfect, that she might want to freshen up a bit after their long day.

"Let me at least help you with your hair."

"Okay."

Carefully, almost reverently, he reached up and pulled out hairpin after hairpin; the veil was freed and he pulled it from her hair, holding it by its delicately beaded top edge. He then pulled out a few more before lifting the tiara up and off, then set it off to the side on the bed along with the veil. As a result of his efforts her hair had fallen down from its coiffure, and she looked even more devastatingly gorgeous with those dishevelled waves around her face and on her bare shoulders. He could not resist running his fingers down through her hair then reaching forward to kiss her again.

She reciprocated, then began to chuckle as she pulled away. "Let me tidy myself a bit. I'll be right back, I promise."

"I know."

He watched her walk to where the bags were, grabbed her smaller toiletries bag, then shoot a coy look to him as she entered the en suite bathroom and closed the door behind her. It took more willpower than he liked to think about to resist following her in there, but he managed it. Instead, he got to his feet and slipped out of the jacket, folding it in half then resting it over the chair. Carefully he took the stick pin from his tie, resting it, the veil and the tiara carefully on the nightstand. He undid his tie, then folded the long strip of silk twice along its length before setting it deliberately beside their jewels. It felt like it took him forever to undo every one of those vest and shirt buttons, and he cursed each one more than the last.

After slipping out of his trousers, folding them and his boxers, then resting them on the chair with his jacket, he remembered that the brochure had mentioned two bathrooms, one smaller with basic amenities, and a second, more deluxe one with a large two person bathtub in addition to everything else. He saw the second door, and took his own suitcase to what he assumed was the small bath, but was surprised to find it was in fact the deluxe one. It was everything they had promised and more, half the size of the main suite and sumptuous in every detail: candles lined along the edge of the large tub and waiting to be lit, a bowl of rose petals set on the tiled edge, piles of fluffy cotton towels on the settee beside it. He looked forward to drawing a bath for the two of them later.

For now, he washed up quickly in the stall shower, patted himself dry with a towel then returned to the main room of the suite. She had not reappeared yet. He closed the larger bathroom's door, hoping to surprise her later with its existence.

It was then he saw what else he had missed upon their arrival: a bottle of chilling champagne and two tall flutes, as well a platter of Belgian chocolates. He smiled, then popped the bottle open, pouring them each a glass, then bringing them and the chocolates back to the nightstand. He drew the drapes to dim the room, lit the pillar beside the bed and switched off the lights before slipping beneath the sheets, awaiting her return.

At last the bathroom door opened, and she appeared, looking radiant yet a little shy. She was dressed in ivory, a lacy robe tantalisingly covering what appeared to be more silk beneath, both of which went modestly to her ankles, the lines of the ensemble fairly straight and not flared at all like her dress was. He smiled, hoping to encourage her from this sudden bashfulness. "Come here, darling," he said, sitting up, reaching his hand out to her.

She took a seat beside him on what had long been her side of the bed, where he had folded the corner back for her, and reached to kiss him quickly. He leaned over to the nightstand to his left and took the flutes in hand, handing one to her.

"Now that we're alone," he said, engaging her eyes with what he knew was his most intense gaze, "I want to offer another toast." He held his glass ever more slightly up, and she followed suit, clearly waiting to see where this was going. "To the woman who changed my world when I was least expecting it to be changed; to the woman who taught me to loosen up and have a little fun; to the woman who showed me that love could be well worth the risk, the vulnerability. On this, the very best day ever, I toast you, Bridget, the love of my life; I dedicate myself to loving you, to making you happy, and to being the man you think I am."

As he spoke, he watched her eyes get glossier and glossier with tears until they spilled down over her lower lids. He reached up and wiped them away, then brought his flute close to hers to touch them then took in the flute in one swallow. She did as well.

Collecting the glass from her fingers, he turned to set them on the table, then back to her, intending on divesting her of that lovely robe, but she still looked very serious, pale brow ever so slightly furrowed. "What is it?"

"Still can't figure out what I did to deserve you," she said, attempting a light tone, but she was still very obviously choked with emotion.

"Well," he said, hoping to at least make her smile, "there's that lovely thing you do when you kiss me, when you swirl your tongue 'round…"

She not only smiled but laughed, then reached over to kiss him again. The kiss quickly deepened; he leaned her back onto the copious pile of pillows as she treated him to that very same lovely thing.

He pulled away to look down at her, enjoying the way her lids had closed and her mouth had parted in that moment before she looked up to him with glittering sapphire eyes. "This is very beautiful, what you're wearing," he said, running his fingers along the lace collar.

"It's from my mum," she said as his hand went to the tie at her waist; it was fairly loose already and easily came undone in his fingers. He pushed the edge aside to reveal her body was swathed in the softest, sheerest silk he had ever seen, clinging to her body and legs, more delicate embroidery along the hems and a row of tiny pearl buttons from the vee of the neck all the way down the front to the bottom edge.

It hit him then just how much he had missed having this intimacy with her, how much he wanted her body pressed up against his, how delightfully responsive she always was to the touch of his fingers, how perfect they seemed to fit together in every way. With a much greater insistence he kissed her once more, his fingers going to her thigh. He took hold of the silk, attempting to raise it by millimetres when she broke the kiss. "Oh, Mark, no."

He was bewildered. "What?"

"The buttons. Undo the buttons."

The line of buttons seemed at that moment countless and formidable, the task impossible, especially considering he was resting on one elbow, leaving him with one hand to work with, and not even his dominant hand at that. "Darling, there's a million of them—"

"Mark, you'll never get this gown off me otherwise. Please."

He could not refuse her any gentle demand, especially since he very much wanted that gown off of her, so he reached for the button at the collar, and flipped it open with some effort and concentration on his part, made even more of a challenge after having just downed a glass of sparkling wine. The second, however, came a little more easily; the third, easier still. He pushed himself up a little to follow the seam and by the time he got to the lower hem, he had the button-flipping down to a science.

"There."

In the end, it had been well worth the effort, as the act of opening the buttons, his fingers lightly touching her skin with each flip, seemed to cause her breath to go ragged, her lids to get heavy. He watched her take her lower lip between her teeth as she regarded him with piercing blue eyes, challenging him to continue.

He pushed that lovely silk aside to find she was wearing yet more beneath that; while her breasts were beautifully bare, she was clad in pants of a very skimpy nature made of the same silk, with the same embroidered pattern, and yet two more buttons, one at each hip.

He smiled, fixing his gaze first to her eyes, then to follow where his fingers trailed as they traced a pattern along her sternum, over her breast, to her waist then to her hip. "My beautiful, beautiful Bridget," he said quietly, opening the penultimate button then running the pads of his fingers on the crease of her leg and over the silk of the pants. He paused for a moment before continuing to the other button; she made a soft sound as he did. "What I wouldn't do for you," he whispered in her ear as the final button came undone, as he reached again for that triangle of silk and pulled it down. She lifted her hips just enough for him to pull the pants away completely.

He then noticed on her thigh the real garter, a broader silken band than the other, with a similar dark ribbon along its middle, gleaming blue in the low light. This one also seemed to have a little token attached to it, a little pouch that seemed to have a coin within; undoubtedly the bridal sixpence, as Bridget was one to cover all of her bases with regards to the old traditions. He raked his fingernails over her thigh to the band, continuing to trace his fingers over the velvet of her skin.

She made a breathy, soft sound.

He pulled slowly on the band until got to her knee, her leg perfectly bare and still as smooth as earlier; she raised it to send the garter falling to her foot, which she lifted up off the bed. He slipped the garter off, set it with the other mementos of their day, then ran his hand up her shin to her knee and over her thigh again.

He then brought his hand to her hip and leaned over her to kiss her once more; as he did he felt her hands rise to touch his chest, to circle around and graze along his back before determinedly pulling him forward. The feather-light touch, the feel of her body beneath his, fanned the flames of his desire, and his hand moved from her hip to her waist to her breast as he shifted himself more completely over her. "How I've missed you," he said in a gravelly tone as began kissing her jaw and neck, she arching her head back to better receive the attention, before he moved down to capture her nipple gently between his teeth and tease it into a hard point.

She gasped and made a little moaning sound. "Missed you too," she said in a rasp, her hips moving beneath him. "Bloody Jude."

He held in a chuckle, instead descending on her breast again with a little more insistence, eliciting yet another soft sound. He ran his fingers with deliberate slowness over her skin, breast to stomach to hip to thigh as she moved beneath him in response, as he placed open-mouthed kisses along her jaw again. He wanted her badly, could have easily driven forward and completed their week-long-denied union, but he also wanted to sustain her pleasure, knowing that it would yield exponentially more satisfying results for the both of them in the long run.

It also gave him an opportunity to enjoy the way her pearl-tipped fingernails grazed along his skin, raising bumps and setting nerve endings to blazing in their wake, across his back to his hips and down to his backside, where she seemed to like to keep her focus. He teased her in response by stroking the skin of her inner thigh, causing her breath to stutter, causing her to arch up into him.

It was the feel of those nails just below his arse, her fingers grasping and urging him forward, the feel of her desperate mouth seeking the skin of his throat, the sound of her incoherent pleas for more, that caused him to finally relent and thrust into her. 

The throaty moan this drew from her encouraged him to rear back and thrust once more; he could feel the tension in the muscles of her legs as she pushed up to meet him. He buried his face in her neck, kissing her along where her pulse hammered just beneath the skin, determined not to go too fast too soon, but quickly losing that determination at the feel of her responding beneath him; her fingernails pressed into his upper then lower back, hearing the gasps and sounds of pleasure she was making as she took his hips in her hands and grasped firmly to pull him into her.

Her cries continued to escalate as he moved faster and faster. He felt that telltale tightness building around him… and then he felt himself lose it completely, going taut as wire as he drove forward one more time, arched his head back and came with a great shuddering groan.

It was not completely simultaneous, but his climax seemed to trigger her own, so he continued to move in her, feeling wave after wave of her release until she let out a long, satisfied sigh, encircling his neck with her arms, and drawing him into a kiss.

He rolled to his side so as not to keep his weight on her, holding her close to him so as to not yet break their connection, and lavished more long, languorous kisses upon her, this most cherished of women, his Bridget, his wife. He sighed too, running fingers through her tousled locks, touching her face, her neck with the reverence he had for her.

"Not that I want to advocate long periods of deliberate abstinence in future," she breathed after some moments of hazy, peaceful silence, "but, ohhh. That was very good, indeed."

He laughed low in his throat, turning so that she laid upon him, so that he might run his hands over the soft curve of her bottom. She gazed down at him, rosy and satiated, then lowered her head to plant delicate, loving little kisses on his mouth before stroking his face with the pads of her fingers.

"I'm going to have to have words with your mother," he teased.

"Why?"

"Presenting me with a frustrating, Russian-nesting-doll of a lingerie set on my wedding night… that's either pure genius or pure evil."

At this she laughed, then settled down to rest on his chest, to nestle in his neck, tracing her fingers over the mat of hair.

"Today really was the best day of my life," she said quietly. He placed a kiss into her hair; he could still see the bright summer sun peeking in along the edges of the drapes, but the excitement of the day then the exuberance with which they had just consummated their marriage caught up with him all at once; he felt himself losing the battle against slumber, and only replied with an affirmative sound before he could no longer keep his eyes open.

………

The sun was still glowing from behind the drapes, though at a much different angle, when he awoke; instinctively though he knew it was not the next morning. Bridget was still asleep, curled around her pillow, the covers up to her chin; he was spooned up against her, so delicately he extricated himself from the bed and went into the bathroom. Splashing a little water onto his face, slipping into one of the robes on the back of the door, he realised he had no idea what time it was but figured it was about time to start thinking of dinner. The wedding breakfast (or rather, lunch) seemed an eternity ago.

He went back to sit on the bed beside her, brushing wisps of hair from her face then bending down to placing a kiss on her temple. She roused awake, looked up at him, and smiled. "Mmm, was having the best sleep I've had in months," she said groggily. "Now that everything's over and done with… I feel free as a bird."

He chuckled. "Well, my darling little bird, I wanted to see what your thoughts were on supper. Dressing up and dining downstairs in grand style, or room service?"

She clearly looked torn. He loved taking her out and she knew it; he knew she loved when he took her out; but the thought of lounging lazily in robes and eating in their suite…

"Room service. I did the fancy dress up thing once already today," she said at last, then added, "if that's okay with you."

"That's fine with me," he said. "I was rather hoping you'd say that."

She smiled sleepily.

He thought about that bathtub, and suddenly wanted to see her reaction at its mention. "Then after that, after we've had a chance to digest, perhaps a long soak."

"Oh, Mark, I hate to disappoint you," she said, sitting up and looking very sombre, "but the bathroom is a bit on the spare side. There's no tub to speak of, only a shower, a toilet and a sink. Strange, really, that the honeymoon suite has a smaller loo than our other room here."

Amused by her expected misapprehension, rather than tell her, he decided to show her; he stood again, pulled back the duvet and sheets and extended his hand to her. With a quizzical look on her face she took it, pulling the open robe and nightie tight around herself, and followed him.

As he swung the door open, she took in a surprised breath as she saw the grandeur of the main bath. When she saw the spa-style bathtub, she turned to look up at him with a beaming smile.

"I'm sure given your normal curiosity," he said, "you would have found this bathroom if you hadn't been so otherwise distracted upon our arrival."

She giggled, then took his left hand in hers, looking at the ring on his hand. "It's a little weird, seeing this."

"I thought it would some getting used to," he said, "but already it feels like it's been there all my life."

"Mind you, I like it," she continued. "And I like that it's there for me."

He pulled her into his arms. "How hungry are you?"

"Should be starving, but am not."

"What do you say to bath first?"

Bridget looked thoughtful. "How come we can't do both at once?"

"They might get a little cross if we got food in their bathtub." He released her from his embrace, suddenly struck with a thought. "Hm. Have a better idea." He went to the tub, put the water on full tilt, poured in some bubble bath then went back out to the bedside for the Belgian chocolates, the remainder of the champagne, and the flutes.

"Where did those come from?" she said, seeing the box as he set it all down on the side of the tub.

"Came with the champagne."

She grinned impishly as she slipped out of her lacy robe and silken nightgown. "Chocolate, champagne and bubble bath for two. How decadent is that?"

"Pretty damned decadent," he agreed; she was not intending for her disrobing to be anything but a prelude to stepping into the bathtub, but he found himself unable to look away from her.

"What, Mark?"

"Just basking in your beauty," he said playfully, realising maybe he had been staring a little too long, "and loving how you look wearing nothing but your rings."

He swore she blushed, but then she asked, "Oh, should we take them off?"

"Darling, they're platinum," he said, reaching for the bowl of rose petals, then sprinkling a handful over the foamy water. "They'll be fine."

She smiled at him one last time, climbed into the rising bathwater and sighed with pleasure as she sank into it. "Oh, heavenly," she said. "Temperature's perfect."

He slipped out of his robe and into the water beside her; it was immediately soothing, between the temperature and the pleasingly light scent of the bubble bath. After turning off the taps, he immediately reached to pour her a second glass of bubbly as well as one for himself, raising it for another toast.

"Oh," she said. "I think it's my turn to toast you." She smiled, lifting her chin in a mock-haughty manner. "As you well know, I'm not good at public speaking, and also not good at keeping what I'm thinking from falling out of my mouth. There's one thing, though, that I hope I never bite my tongue on, and that's how much I love you. I've never known anyone as good or as solid as you are, and I'm thankful not only for your love in return, but that you help to centre me and keep me focused."

He felt suddenly emotional, and moved to cup her face in his hand for a kiss.

"Mark," she said just as he was about to plant one on her lips. "We haven't toasted yet."

He chuckled and pulled away, then touched the rim of his glass to hers. Together they took in a sip of champagne, then he reached forward to claim that kiss, brief but no less meaningful.

"Oh, wait," he said. "Let's not forget."

He turned back to the bathtub's ledge, and plucked a chocolate dusted with pale brown cocoa powder up out of the box, then held it up for her to eat. They weren't large chocolates, but instead of taking a delicate nibble off of the edge of the square, she took not only the whole chocolate into her mouth, but most of his finger as well. Slowly she pulled back, grazing her teeth over his fingertip as she did, then sat back in the bath, smirking impishly as she chewed.

At times it amazed him, the simple things she did that completely and irrevocably flared up his desire for her. He grabbed another chocolate and held another out for her; she leaned forward to take it from his fingers when he said, "Ah, wait. It's my turn for a chocolate."

"Thought you didn't care for chocolate."

"I don't crave it the same way you do," he admitted, "but as the means to an end, absolutely."

She smiled, apparently catching his meaning; with her mouth dropped open, he set the chocolate between her teeth, which she then held firm. He leaned forward and proceeded to take a bite off of the chocolate, his lips brushing against hers, reflexively triggering a passionate, chocolate-infused kiss.

He pulled her forward to straddle his lap, placed one hand on either side of her face, and continued the kiss despite the chocolate. She broke away and teased, "Very good chocolate. Practically melts in your mouth. In fact, I'm not sure which I like more: the chocolate or the kiss."

"Maybe this'll persuade you." He wrapped his arms around her waist, and tugged her forward and up against him, his hands firm on her hips as he covered her mouth with his.

There was quite a lot of sloshing of water after this, quite a few more chocolates consumed, until Mark reclined back in the tub with Bridget resting on his chest, hair now soaking wet and hanging around her face. "Mmm," she said, snuggling into him, sounding very smug indeed. "Best dinner ever."

"That," he murmured, combing her locks back, "was not a proper dinner."

"I'm filled to bursting and that's all that matters."

He laughed low in his throat, planting a kiss into her dampened hair.

After lying together for quite some time in each other's embrace, Mark noticed the water was growing cooler, the bubble bath disappearing, the rose petals sinking, and suggested they get in the shower to have a proper washing-up. "I love you, darling," he said, "but your hair is drying quite mad and stiff with styling product, not to mention that it tastes terrible when I kiss you on top of your head." She gleefully agreed. He delighted in washing her hair for her as they shared the giant marble-lined stall, delighted in soaping her up with rose-scented suds and skating his hands along her skin to better assist the stream of water in rinsing away all lather.

He patted her dry with one of those plush towels, then wrapped her snugly in the cushy robe, tying the sash at her waist. "Now," he said, facing her wearing his own robe, combing her hair back and out of her eyes, "we shall have a proper dinner. What would you care for?"

She reached up and pulled some wet locks free so that the shorter bits hung down over her eyes. "Something that doesn't require a lot of effort. I'd frankly be happy with finger food."

He reached up and combed it back again. "You're at a world-class country getaway and you want pizza or fish and chips?"

"Yes." She raised her hand to muss her hair again, but he caught her wrist.

"Leave it," he said. "I want to see your radiant, glowing, beautiful face."

She pursed her lips, but he could detect the smile at the corners. "Laying it on a bit thick there, aren't you, Darcy?" she said, cocking an eyebrow up. "I already married you."

He pulled her closer, took her in his arms, then smacked a kiss on the top of her head. "Mm. Much better."

She giggled, wrapping her arms about his own waist.

They stood there in a silent embrace, no words needed, and he pressed his lips to the top of her head again.

"I want every day to be like this," she said softly.

He knew she didn't mean plush robes and bubble baths, champagne and chocolates, roses and rose petals. "If I have anything to say about it… it will be." He pulled back to meet her eyes to his. "And if you want fish and chips on your wedding night, you can."

She laughed, looking down shyly, tendrils of drying hair swinging and brushing across her cheek, which he reached and pushed up again. Their gazes were locked and he found his desire for her building all over again. "Get that call in," she said huskily, "otherwise we may never eat again."

………

_The day after_

Dinner, as it turned out, had served as only a temporary reprieve from the favoured activity of a honeymooning couple, and they'd stayed up much, much longer than they should have; Mark rationalised that the nap had given them both renewed energy. Not that he was one to complain.

Nevertheless, Mark was up at his usual early hour, preoccupied with the events of this day: embarking on the second leg of their honeymoon. He phoned down for an order of coffee and a breakfast of strawberry fruit crepes, then returned to the bed to rouse her awake.

Blinking sleepily, she looked up to him. "Wha?" she asked.

"It's morning."

"What time is it?"

"Six-thirty."

Her mouth dropped open. "Are you mad, waking me at this hour?"

"You'll get used to it," he said with a grin. "I've ordered breakfast."

"I'll _what_?"

"Get used to it," he said teasingly. "It's your wifely duty."

She looked horrified, but the way her eyes were smiling, he knew she was not serious. "Is it too late for take-backs?" she said with mock solemnity.

"Nope, sorry," he said. "You're in for life." He strode to the windows and swept open the blinds. Another glorious day.

"Ack!" she said, yanking the covers back over her head. He went to the bed, sat beside her, and tried to pull them down again, but she resisted. "Bugger off! It's too bright."

He managed to pull the sheets down enough to reveal her face, every bit as beautiful as yesterday. "Not even for this?" he said, then moved to kiss her.

"No!" she said playfully, turning her head away.

 _Foolish girl_ , he thought, as he dove instead to kiss her neck, eliciting a sound belying her pleasure; she released her hold on the covers enough to allow him to pull them down enough to rejoin her.

"You're a tactical genius," she said breathlessly.

"I learned from the best," he said into her ear, raising his hand to run his fingers over her soft skin, down along her leg and to her knee, thinking briefly that one aspect of married life he would never have to fear was losing the fire of passion in the bedroom. "Ready for another wifely duty?" he asked huskily.

"Think I can— _oh_ —bear the burden," she replied, relenting at last and kissing him on the mouth.

Mark was thankful for the delay in the arrival of breakfast, for they were only basking in the afterglow when a brisk knock sounded on the door, followed by a call of "Room service."

He kissed her on the forehead. "Be right back."

He slipped into a robe and padded to the door.

"Good morning, Mr Darcy," said the young lady, wheeling a cart just into the room bearing a domed tray, a carafe of coffee, cups, cream, sweetener and a single red rose in a crystal bud vase. "Breakfast."

He lifted the silver dome to see two plates of the strawberry fruit crepes, topped with a strawberry sauce cleverly shaped into the form of a heart, which was then outlined by whipped cream. He grinned. This would do very well indeed. "Thank you."

She bowed politely and retreated, pulling the door closed behind her with a knowing smile.

Bridget sat up in the bed and smiled at seeing the cart of food, shyly pulling the sheets up to her chest as she arranged all the pillows up against the headboard for them to rest back on. He fixed her coffee, then lifted the dome again, arranged her plate, her coffee, and the rose on her tray. She giggled at his setting the tray over her lap. "Oh, this is lovely. Strawberry hearts. How sweet of them."

He put together his own tray, then brought it around to his side of the bed, slipped out of the robe, back under the sheets and reclined back with her. "Looks delicious, and really puts me in the mood for our next destination." He cut the edge off of the crepe, then brought it to his mouth, trying to remain the picture of nonchalance even as she whipped her head around to look at him.

"Where? _Where?_ "

"Patience, my love," he said, sipping his coffee. "Eat your breakfast. All will be revealed in good time."

"You're cruel," she said with a pout. "I'm dying to know."

"You would deny me the pleasure of seeing you figure out the surprise on your own?"

She smirked in that adorable way she had when she didn't want him to know she really, truly agreed with him in her heart. "I suppose when you word it like that… I would not want to be thought of as your heartless, cruel wife." She popped a bite of crepe into her mouth, looked absolutely orgasmic as she chewed. "Oh, lord, this is amazing. I hope you really do like me curvy, because if we're in store for more food like this…"

"Don't worry," he said, continuing to eat, continuing his nonchalance. "I do really like you curvy, but I also have every intention on helping you burn off all of those extra calories."

She had been in the process of sipping her coffee, but sputtered on it as she laughed at his last line. "Trying to knock me off already?" she joked as he lightly patted her back.

"Sorry," he said, though he wasn't sorry she hadn't noticed she'd dropped her sheet, which he purposefully did not point out to her.

After another few minutes, after a few more bites, she did notice, and shot him a look, covering herself again.

"Darling," he said in his own defence, recalling their vows from the previous day, "if I'm to worship you with my body, I prefer to have a clear view of yours."

She giggled but turned adorably pink.

He would have liked to continue to worship her body well into the afternoon, but they had places to be (and, more importantly, a plane to catch), so instead he carried on eating his breakfast and encouraged her to do the same. She wanted to take a quick shower, and honestly, he did too.

"It's going to be another busy day," he said enigmatically as he finished his food, "so being as fresh as possible at the start certainly doesn't hurt."

She leaned forward to put her tray at the foot of the bed, then leaned back against him. "Mmm. Half wish we were just staying here."

"Sadly," he said, "our car will be here at ten."

"Our car?"

"Well," he said. "Have to get to the airport somehow."

She lifted her chin up to look at him. "So are you saying I would regret it if I instead pinned you down to the bed here all day and we missed this flight to our mystery destination?"

"Absolutely," he said, "and knowing your fondness for doing so, that's saying quite a lot."

She laughed, then leaned forward and kissed him. "Mmm," she said again, taking his lower lip between her teeth and slowly rolling it between them, before kissing him once more. "Really is too bad," she added breathily.

He raised his hand, brushing his palm against the peak of her breast. "Well," he said. "It isn't quite eight yet."

………

"Since you packed my bag for me," said Bridget, "and I haven't the faintest where we're going, you're going to have to pick out something appropriate for me to wear."

She stepped out of the shower, towelling herself dry as he was finishing up his shave.

"Already know exactly what you're going to wear," he said. 

"Do you now?" she asked, slipping into the bra and pants she'd pulled out from her toiletries bag. "And what's that?"

"A new dress I bought for you."

She looked surprised.

"Well, it isn't as if I haven't done it before."

"Oh, don't doubt it won't be gorgeous," she said, "but my goodness, you're going to spoil me."

"And your point is…?" he asked with a grin, patting away the extra shaving cream.

She dried her hair then applied her makeup as he slipped into his own clothing—casual but dignified—then found the dress he'd bought for her: the perfect shade of blue to accentuate her eyes; the short, blousy sleeves; the light gauzy cotton fabric; the slight flaring silhouette of the skirt, which came down to her knees. It was a style that was very flattering to her figure, and she smiled as he handed it to her.

"Wow, Mr Darcy," she teased as she held it up, "you missed your calling as a fashion consultant."

He chuckled. "You finish getting dressed, I'll get your gown together."

"My gown!" she said with a gasp, turning to him, lowering the dress down. "What are we going to do with it?"

"The staff will be shipping it back to London for us."

"You think of everything," she said.

"No, actually, they did," he said in response.

She pulled the dress carefully over her head, pulled the more fitted waist of the dress down over her chest, then smoothed the flaring skirt down. The dress looked every bit as gorgeous on her as he hoped it would, and as she looked up for him for his reaction, he smiled broadly to convey his approval.

He left the bathroom, then headed for the telephone, called down for someone to come and get not only their bags but Bridget's bridal gown. They advised they would come up with a garment bag then take care of everything from there, and he went for the gown as well as the jewels, which he put in the tiara's velvet pouch, and set them down on the bed. With a small smirk he looked at the rumpled sheets; a lingering modesty caused him to right the pillows and pull the corners taut.

She emerged from the bathroom, her makeup, hair, and clothing complete, carrying her repacked toiletries bag. "All I need is my shoes."

"Ah. One moment." He reached into her suitcase and pulled out a pair of what he knew to be her favourite shoes, her beloved black kitten heels, and presented them to her. "Here you are."

"Hm. I'd prefer the ivory ones," she said with a smile.

"I didn't bring the ivory ones."

"What?"

"Well, these are your favourites. I packed light. It's either these or your trainers. I'm sorry."

She sighed. "Not the end of the world."

"It looks really nice," he said, hoping to make amends for his faux pas.

She offered a half-hearted smile. "Thought I'd trained you. Maybe being married will make it stick at last."

He went to her and pulled her in his arms to kiss her, when they heard a knock on the door. He chuckled. "Time to go."

Mark opened the door, found another young man in hotel livery, accompanied by a familiar-looking young woman bearing a garment bag and a smile. "Good morning," he said. 

"The dress?" asked the woman.

"It's over there."

"Thank you." She looked at Bridget, bowing politely. "Congratulations."

Where he had failed to recognise the woman, Bridget did not. "Oh, hi!" said Bridget. "I remember you—you came in for the linens when we stayed here the last time."

"You have a good memory," she said. Now that Bridget had pointed it out, he realised the woman with the garment bag had been one of the chambermaids who'd come in and swapped out the bed sheets during her illness, the one with the auburn hair who'd called her 'ma'am'.

"No, it's you who has the good memory," said Bridget, as she watched the woman fold her bridal gown with great care into the garment bag. "You must see hundreds of people a month."

"Your last stay here was quite memorable," she said.

It was subtle, but Mark caught it: the clouding over of her features, the expression on her face, undoubtedly recollecting her illness and the unpleasantness she experienced as a result. He smiled and went over to her, putting his arm around her shoulder, pressed a kiss into her temple.

She turned and looked up at him, her smile returning.

"There you are," she said, zipping up the bag. "We'll take care of sending this back to London for you."

"Thank you."

"Enjoy the next leg of your honeymoon," Red said, then with a smile, picked up the garment bag, then made to retreat. "Have a long and happy life together." She bowed again. "Good day."

Mark brought the other suitcases around and set them near the bellboy. "Our car should be here any moment."

"Your car is here," said the bellboy.

Bridget beamed. "Hurrah," she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garters: ["With a sixpence for her shoe"](http://www.silkgarters.co.uk/add-a-sixpence-bag-to-my-garter--126).
> 
> Lovely honeymoon suite image [here](http://www.cosmopolis.ch/images/washington/willard_intercontinental/honeymoon.jpg).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I neglected to mention that the bit with cousin Simon dancing with Bridget at the reception was v. much inspired by the original Ruby Wedding dance with cousin Simon. Just want to give credit where it's due.

_The day after (con't.)_

Within moments they were out of the hotel, in the car, and on their way to a local airstrip, from which the private plane would be departing to their destination. "You're very sneaky, Mark," said Bridget. "Keeping this as secret as possible for as long as possible."

"I do like to draw out the suspense," he said smugly.

He reached for and took her hand, brushing the pads of his fingers over the metal of her ring. It wasn't going to be a long drive, but he rather liked keeping constant physical contact with her.

"Is that our plane?" she asked as they came to a stop at the main building of the airfield.

"I suppose we will find out soon enough."

He had already sent word to the crew, the pilot and the airfield personnel that the destination was to remain under wraps. He emerged from the car, then turned to help her out. It was a little windy on the tarmac due to the flat landscape, so he endeavoured to get her into the plane as soon as possible.

The plane they saw did end up being theirs after all, according to the ground crew. Their bags were loaded into the plane and they themselves boarded very shortly afterwards.

It was much nicer than any commercial plane he had ever been in, with ambient lighting, leather upholstery on the chairs, and what appeared to be a little dining area. She looked around herself with an incredulous grin, then turned her eyes back on Mark. "This is really posh," she said.

"Travelling in style, you and I," he said. "The way I always intend to keep it."

They had to remain buckled in during the taxi and take-off, and only got clearance to move freely about the cabin of the plane after reaching a certain altitude. They were accompanied in the cabin by an air hostess, who offered some coffee almost as soon as they rose from their seats.

"Yes, I would like that very much," said Bridget. "Though I'm so worked up with nerves I'm not sure I need coffee to stay alert."

She nodded, then went to the fore of the plane, as Bridget walked around to examine the small but elegant space. 

"So how long of a flight is this?" she asked, standing above him as he got settled at the table, in one of the more cushioned chairs.

"About an hour or so, I'm told."

"Hm," she said thoughtfully. 

"Why don't you come sit down and wait for your coffee," he said, "and let time reveal the mystery of our destination."

She chuckled, sitting across from him. "This is very surreal," she said, looking around herself, looking out the window to the clouds, and between the breaks of the clouds, they could see patches of green land below. "Coffee with you high above the earth."

He smiled, reached across, and offered his hand across the table, which she took and squeezed. As the smell of the brewing coffee permeated the small space in a matter of moments, he was content to just share the silence with her, holding fast her gaze, the corners of his mouth turning up in a small, involuntary smile. It was still strange to think that after all of those months of planning it was all over in what felt like the blink of an eye, comparatively speaking. He brushed his thumb against the back of her hand; her entire expression softened even more. He loved that he could simply sit with her, cradle her fingers in his, and not say anything at all, yet feel like they'd had an entire conversation.

"Sorry to, um, interrupt."

It was their air hostess, who stood there with a tray; he had not even noticed her approach. Mark released Bridget's hand and she withdrew it back to her lap. "Here's your coffee." In setting the tray down, he saw that she had brought them two cups of coffee, a pitcher of cream, and a small variety of sweeteners. "We have some biscuits, if you like. Chocolate or vanilla."

"Oh, yes please," said Bridget without hesitation. "Both."

Mark chuckled.

"Only because I know you prefer the vanilla ones," she added defensively, then reached for the cream and the sugar.

The air hostess was back in a flash with the biscuits, then left again.

"So tell me, Mark," she said, speaking in a low tone and raising her eyes to him again with a spark of devilishness that immediately made him suspicious, "do you regret not getting to fulfil every man's fantasy?"

"Which would be…?"

"Shagging the bride while she was still in her gown, all pushed up 'round her waist?"

It had been something that he had thought about very much before the wedding day, but the thought of sharing such a fantasy with her immediately made him tighten his jaw. "Not every man has that fantasy," he said in a clipped tone.

She did not respond, she did not blink, only continued to stare at him with incredible intensity until he was sure she was probing his mind for the truth. 

"Bridget," he said. "I regret nothing about last night."

"Admit it," she said. "You thought about it."

He regarded her with an equally intense gaze. "'Every man's fantasy'? And you know this how?"

"I have other male friends."

"With whom you discuss their fantasies?" he said coolly, though not truly upset. "Proceed with caution, love."

"I only meant…" she began with trepidation, as if she thought she might have inadvertently sparked their first fight as a married couple. "It's not uncommon."

"I can name one man who assuredly does not have this fantasy."

"Really? Who?"

He was silent for a moment before saying, completely deadpan, "Tom."

She broke her serious gaze at last and began to laugh. "You win."

Mark sipped his coffee again. "Besides," he said, "it's not like you couldn't put that dress back on at some point in future when we get back home."

She chuckled as she reached for a chocolate biscuit. "I guess I win too," she said, offering him a flirtatious wink as she took a nibble off of the corner.

She drained her coffee, ate three biscuits before the air hostess came by to offer a top up. Bridget brought the cup to her lips, looking quite satisfied all around; her gaze drifted out the window to the skies beyond.

"Did you ever have one of those moments," she said pensively, "where everything seemed so perfect and right you were certain it was too good to be true, that you'd wake up to find it had all been a dream?"

"Absolutely," he said. "In fact, repeatedly. Starting with the night we first slept together."

She turned her eyes back to him with a smile. "You're so sweet."

"There's nothing sweet about it," he said. "It's just a matter of fact." He took the opportunity to offer her a wink in return.

They sat in peaceable silence, sipping their second cups, when the air hostess came by to let them know they needed to return to their seats and buckle their belts, because they would be landing soon. As he and Bridget went back to their seats she cleared away the cups.

Bridget looked to her right, out the window, undoubtedly searching for some clue to their whereabouts. That's when she spotted something that caused her mouth to drop open and her eyes to go wide; he had a very good idea as to what it must have been…

"Oh my God. _Mark_. Is that the Eiffel Tower?" 

He leaned forward to look out the window. He had been correct. " _Oui_ ," he said. She turned to him, still in quite a state. He tried very hard not to let a smile work its way into his features, but he was not entirely successful. "Seeing as I thwarted your trip there the night I returned from—"

Bridget launched herself on him as best she could given the restraints over their laps, wrapping her arms about him and covering his mouth with hers, kissing him amidst declarations of her love and adoration.

"I'm glad you approve," he said, once he could get a word in edgewise.

"I definitely approve," she said, sitting back into her own chair, but clasping his hand and holding tight, her fingers entwined with his. "Oh, magical honeymoon in Paris. A dream come true."

He smiled, feeling quite self-satisfied.

After circling overhead, waiting for clearance to land—and giving the two of them grand bird's-eye views of the entire city through the open windows—they were on the ground and being shuttled to another waiting car. "This is so exciting!" she said, bubbling with enthusiasm as they climbed into the car and settled in for the drive. "Where are we staying?"

"The Ritz," he said.

At this, she made an adorable squealing sound, bouncing in her seat. He chuckled, pulling her closely into him, kissing her temple again.

The whole check-in process was, to him, secondary to the look of excitement and wonder as they stepped through the glamorous hotel, from the lobby, escorted all the way up to their room, a grand suite boasting magnificent furniture, a large, plush-looking bed (as best as they could tell through the open doorway into the bedroom), flowers exploding out of vases on many of the flat surfaces, and sweeping views of all the best sights of Paris through the windows. "Wow," she said to Mark the moment the porter departed and left them alone. "This is astounding, Mark. Such luxury. I dare not think what this is cost—"

"That," he said, taking her into his arms, "is nothing you should concern yourself with. It's our honeymoon, and I'm treating you to the best that I can afford, because you are my queen. Remember?"

She giggled, assuredly remembering his drunken ramblings that he only knew of second-hand. "If you insist on spoiling me and thus making return to regular life that much more difficult…"

"Oh, I don't intend on stopping spoiling you just because we return to regular life."

She got up on her toes and kissed him quite thoroughly, combing her fingers into his hair, before rearing back with her hands still framing his face. "I love you, you stuffy old barrister," she said playfully, dropping back down onto her heels.

"I love you, you verbally-incontinent spinster," he teased in return. "Oh, though I guess I can't say that any more, can I?"

"Not if you want to continue sleeping with me," she said with a grin. "So let's poke around this suite of ours and see what we have to play with for the next…" She furrowed her brows as she trailed off. "How long are we here, exactly?"

"Two weeks."

Her mouth dropped open adorably before she caught herself. "Good grief," she said with a smile. "I really am going to be spoiled."

"Yes," he concurred. "You really are."

With Bridget taking the investigatory lead, they went from the main salon into the bedroom, getting an up-close and personal look at the grand bed, made up with a lavish, overstuffed duvet, and sheets that, upon Mark's running his fingers over the surface of the pillow, he discovered were of cream-coloured silk. On the bureau was a vase of pristine white roses, just as he had requested. "I don't know how I can keep gushing without sounding like an imbecile," said Bridget, running her hand over the duvet and along the gilt-edged headboard, "but this place… I can hardly believe I'm not dreaming."

"Get used to it, Mrs Darcy," he said.

She smiled demurely, then spotted the open door to another room, the bathroom, if he had to guess. "Ohh, the bath," she said, hastening to it. "I can't even imagine… oh my God. A hot tub!"

He came up behind her to gaze into the marbled bath, outfitted with not just the usual sink, toilet, and shower, but a bath as well as a hot tub and what appeared to be a sauna. Even by Mark's standards this was impressive.

Bridget had gone over to the side of the bath and found a little gift basket, which she immediately pulled apart to examine with the thrill of a child on Christmas morn. "Oh, rose soap, rose bath cream and rose bath tea… what do you suppose the difference is?"

"I have no idea," he said, "but I look forward to finding out." He went to sit beside her on the edge of the bathtub. "So what do you want to do first?"

"What do you mean?"

"Lunch in the room, or at a bistro? Maybe some shopping for something fantastic to wear to dinner tonight, followed up by some sight-seeing?"

Her eyes got wide at the possibilities, but then she said, "Good grief. Are you telling me you haven't planned out every minute of every day?" She winked, then set the bath goodies back into their little basket, reaching out for his hand, stroking the palm with her fingers. "I don't know, Mark," she said, looking up at him; "I'm kind of tired from all of the travelling and excitement of getting here. I was kind of counting on, you know, staying in today."

"You're in Paris, city of love and lights, filled with wonders such as the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, and you want to stay in?" he said, bringing his free hand up to cup her face.

"Paris isn't going anywhere," she said quietly, leaning forward to kiss him, but stopping short just before she did. "And we have to ensure that our accommodations are absolutely satisfactory."

"Mmm," he said in response. "You have a point."

She then leaned in to complete that kiss; he took her in his arms, was before long scooping her up off the edge of the bathtub and carrying her to the bed, clumsily pushing the covers back before setting her down. "Very… very… nice," she said between kisses as he made to divest her of that lovely blue dress; whether she meant his attentions or the bed itself he did not know, but ultimately, he did not care.

………

It was later that evening while soaking together in rose-scented redolence that Bridget jokingly proclaimed her utter and complete satisfaction with their suite as well as the quality of room service.

"I'm glad to hear," he said, feeling very sleepy after their morning of travel and their afternoon of exertion. "I'd hate to think we'd have to uproot into another hotel," he teased in return, "especially since I doubt there's one better."

"Mmm," she said, resting up against him, running her hands along his chest under the layer of bubbles. "Very satisfied in every possible way."

"Glad to hear that too."

They laid there in quiet repose, skin against skin in the bathwater, and for a moment Mark didn't care that they were in such a magnificent, historic city such as this; it mattered only that he had her there with him, and would have her with him for the rest of his days, the gleaming rings a symbol of that devotion, attachment, and love.

"It would be a shame," she said quietly, almost as if reading his thoughts, "if we didn't actually see the sights."

He chuckled.

"I mean, the Louvre, right here, within driving distance. I'd surely regret not taking the time to go and see it."

"I ordered tickets for Saturday," he said in a low tone.

"Oh good." She tightened her embrace around him. "And the Eiffel Tower. I mean, sure, it's a bit touristy, but crikey. It's the Eiffel Tower."

"We'll go on Sunday, just after lunch."

"Mark," she said after a moment, sounding very cautious. "Did you in fact actually plan every minute of every day?"

"No," he said with a smile. "I thought today might turn out this way, a little lazy and relaxing, so I didn't—"

She sat up, laughing, and splashed him with soapy water. "You lunatic."

He grinned; he sat up too and splashed her in return until the splashing war turned into a bit of a wrestle, which then turned into something else altogether enjoyable.

"You're a terrible influence on me," Mark said afterwards, feeling satiated but even sleepier than before.

"Admit it," she sighed. "You love it."

He chuckled, then suggested they get out of the water, and possibly think about a late supper.

"Didn't we have supper already?" she asked as he helped her rise from the water, handing her a lush cotton towel.

"No," he said. "That was a late lunch."

She smiled abashedly. "I'm so confused."

"No, my darling," he said, shaking out the water from his hair. "You're just shag-drunk."

She threw her head back with laughter, which reminded him exactly how much he loved her influence on him, terrible or otherwise.

………

_A week after: The Eiffel Tower_

It wasn't true that he had their entire stay planned out to the minute, but he did have a general idea or what he wanted to do before the honeymoon ended. He was not foolish enough to think that they wouldn't be spending a lot of time in their suite.

He had managed to take her shopping for some new dresses appropriate for evenings out in the grand city of Paris; took her for supper at some of the most exclusive restaurants in town; spent an entire day at the Louvre, with Bridget gawking at the treasured works of art as they made their way through as much as they could in such a comparatively small period of time.

It was atop the Eiffel Tower that Bridget reminded him of her dislike of heights: "Oh, Mark, don't make me get too near that edge," she said tremulously.

"Darling," he said. "You're perfectly safe. Come here. Just don't look down. Look outward."

Tentatively she came nearer to him, allowed him to wrap an arm around her waist.

"You see? That isn't so bad."

"No," she said, though she was still trembling a little.

"Isn't the view gorgeous?" he said encouragingly.

She smiled, looking up to him. "Yes, it is. Oh!" She reached into her large handbag, and pulled out her digital camera. Once she'd remembered she'd brought one, she had been unstoppable snapping photos. She held the camera out at arm's length, then pointed it at the two of them. "Smile!" she said, then depressed the shutter release.

He laughed; he loved how her idea of photos to capture their memories involved spontaneous shutter clicks rather than posed scenes. She turned the camera back around and looked in the window on the back, giggling at seeing the result. It was half her face in the frame and in focus, half his, both smiling, and just beyond the panorama of Paris appeared. "Oh, I forgot I had the zoom on. Let's delete this one and do it again."

"No," said Mark. "I like this one. Leave it."

Looking at him as if he were mad, she said, "If you say so."

"It may be my favourite so far."

"You look so normal," she said, "but you're strange."

She did snap a few more traditional photos of both of them, then some of him, and he then took some of her. She looked so rosy, so happy, so full of life, that he zoomed in and took a few more just of her, with little else in the screen.

"I lied," he said. "I just snapped my favourites, and if you delete them, I'm divorcing you."

She punched him playfully on the upper arm then grabbed the camera to see what he'd taken. "Crikey," she said. "I look sunburnt and pudgy. Mark, really. Must we keep them?"

"I think you look wonderful, and this is how I want to remember my day up here with you."

She gave him a sceptical look, but turned off the camera and stowed it once more. "You're strange," she said again. "Good thing I like you so much."

After having dinner nearby, they decided afterwards to hire a horse-drawn, open air carriage in which to tour the city in twilight, and the magical glow of the lights, the wind in their hair, her hand firm in his, he felt as if he were seeing the city for the first time in his life.

As the sun crept further and further down, heading for the horizon, she began to shiver a little, so he wrapped his arm around her and held her close. The ambience, the sense of romance of their surroundings got the better of him and he raised her chin to kiss her, much to the delight of the pedestrians on the street, who gave them an impromptu round of applause as the carriage stopped for a traffic signal. He felt himself turn a little red in response, but to say he was embarrassed to be seen kissing his beautiful wife would be a falsehood.

With a soft smile, she said, "I truly wish all the people I loved could be this happy."

It was glancing out onto the street that he saw someone that made him do a double take: dark hair, aquiline nose, pale eyes, but on second glance, he realised the man he was seeing was not in fact his brother, but someone who only looked very much like him. This man was older, his eyes too close together, and his mouth too thin, drawn, and obviously not used to smiling. He wondered then what Peter looked like now, if he even looked remotely like when he'd seen him last. Was his hair longer, or greyer… or had he lost it altogether? Was he aging well, or was the stress of his occupation taking its toll on his easygoing, fun-loving brother?

"What is it, Mark?"

"It's nothing." Unfortunately, it was a little more terse a tone than he intended.

"Mark," she said more sternly. "Don't lie to me. You look like you saw a ghost."

"I just thought I saw my—someone I knew. That's all." He leaned forward and kissed her again. "Please don't worry."

"If you say so," she said, looking up at him, her eyes wide and luminous, before settling back into the crook of his arm.

The uneasiness of that moment in the carriage was quickly forgotten, easily dispersed by the aura of this most extraordinary of cities, and the rest of the ride, then the return to The Ritz, was filled with joy and giggling, followed shortly thereafter by kissing, caressing and other related endeavours.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was so quiet in the stillness of the night that he thought at first he must have been sleeping and merely dreamt it. "What? Why?" he whispered back, holding her close to him.

"I was just thinking how sorry I was that your brother didn't show up."

"It's all right," he said gently. "It's not your fault."

"But I pressured you to send the invitation."

"Darling," he said, stroking her hair, "I'm sorry too, though not surprised he didn't come, but I'm still glad that we sent the invitation. I can at least honestly say I tried."

She turned her head and kissed him on his collarbone. "Goodnight, Mark," she said sleepily.

He intended on saying 'goodnight' in response, but was too quickly overtaken by sleep.

………

_Ten days after_

"Mark!"

The panic in Bridget's voice brought him to instant wakefulness and he sat upright. "What?"

She looked thoroughly distraught as she asked, "What happened to the tiara? And oh my God, your pin!"

He fought the urge to chuckle. They'd been in Paris for coming up on a fortnight, and only now did she think of the tiara and the pin. "Darling, they're back safe in London."

"What? How?"

"I packed them up to go back with the dress by courier."

"Oh!" She clapped her hand over her heart in relief. "I was about to be very, very upset that I'd gone and managed to lose your grandmother's heirloom tiara."

"Ah," he said. " _Your_ heirloom tiara." She came to sit by him on the bed. "As long as you've managed to keep track of your pearls, we're just fine with regards to jewellery."

She smiled, looking to their joined hands. "Yes. Pearls are in my small bag, very safely hidden."

Mark was very aware that she'd worn them almost every night they'd gone out to dinner. "You could wear them this evening too," he suggested.

"I will," she said, then sighed. "Can't believe it's almost over."

"Nothing's over," said Mark. "Our stay in Paris is almost over, but I don't intend on the honeymoon ever being over."

She grinned.

For that evening, she decided to wear the green, leaf-decorated dress he had purchased for her so long ago in Stratford, and the pearls looked absolutely lovely with the ensemble. She'd pulled her hair up and away from her face, but left the back long and loose to just brush along her shoulders, wisps of fringe sweeping against her nose. "I'm starting to think I need a haircut," she said. "I resisted before the wedding because I wanted to have lots of hair to play with, but this is getting ridiculous."

"I think it looks sexy."

She raised an eyebrow. "And you are completely unbiased."

"Who else's opinion matters?" he retorted with a smirk.

"Point taken," she said. She found the white heels purchased on one of their shopping forays and slipped into them, grabbing a wrap also picked up during one of those trips. "You know what we're going to need?" she asked, slipping the wrap around her shoulders and grabbing her clutch purse.

"What, darling?" he asked, reaching around her to free her hair from under the edge of the wrap.

"Another suitcase for all of the stuff we bought."

He laughed—he loved how much he laughed when he was with her—then drew her close for a kiss. "Dinner awaits."

They went to a little restaurant they hadn't gone to yet but had been on the list of places recommended by hotel concierge. It was charming, intimate, with a warm, homely atmosphere; the food was equally excellent. There was even live music and dancing, which, after some cajolement, he found himself on the dance floor with her in his arms.

"You're such a good dancer," she said, pulling herself closer to him as they swayed to the music. "I wish we had more opportunities to dance like this."

He thanked her for the compliment by planting a kiss in her hair. "I'm not well-practised," he said, "and until very recently, without a suitable partner."

He felt her chuckle. 

A minute or two later, he heard her ask, "Um, Mark, I don't mean to cause you alarm, but there's something weird about your chest."

"What?" he asked, feeling alarmed nonetheless.

"There's something unnaturally… well, _hard_ there." She raised her hand to the left shoulder of his jacket, then brushed downward, her fingers tracing over a small firm spot there just over his chest.

He refrained from laughing or even smiling as he explained, "Darling, you have nothing to worry about. You put it there."

"I what?"

"Well, not literally." He pulled back to meet her eyes. "It's your amulet."

She grinned. "Oh." She then furrowed her brow. "But that was really just for the wedding day."

"I can keep your love, loyalty and friendship close to my heart every day, can't I?"

He saw her eyes get a little misty, and she cuddled close to him again. "If we weren't on a dance floor," she said, "I'd ask you to pinch me to let me know I wasn't really dreaming."

He slipped his hand down and delivered a stealthy pinch to her bottom anyway. She made a small sound of surprise.

"Feel free to ask me regardless," he said teasingly. "You never know when I'll oblige you."

………

One more night alone with her, secluded from the responsibilities and duties of their lives, the family and friends they loved, before a return to real life. While he missed his work to some extent, certainly missed those people in his life he cared about so dearly, there had been something so special and wonderful about their time alone that he was growing melancholy that it was over.

Not that he thought anything would be missing from their real life together.

"Thought you said the honeymoon was never going to be over," Bridget teased, clearly reading his mind.

He reached out his arm, and from where she was standing in her robe, putting her things into her suitcase, she came near to where he sat on the bed. He wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his cheek against her stomach. "It won't," he explained, "but I will miss having you all to myself, every hour of every day."

He felt her fingernails raking through his hair. "I know what you mean," she said, sounding sad herself, "but in a sense, nothing really changes. You still have all of me, every hour of every day."

Mark really loved Bridget's sense of philosophy, as it was usually poignant and amusing at the same time, serving to remind him of what was really important as well as making him smile.

"But especially the evening hours," he jested, moving his hands down over her bottom, to the backs of her legs.

"Oh, yes," she concurred, "especially then."

………

_About two weeks after_

The picture-perfect wedding and honeymoon were all but a memory now; as the two of them made the drive home to Holland Park from Heathrow, Mark realised that though it was all over, there was still so much to look forward to. He'd assuredly offer protest in her insisting on showing the photos, the details of their trip, to not only eagerly-awaiting friends and family but to everyone in earshot; in the end, though, he would secretly love sharing their joy with anyone willing to partake of it. They also still had the sorting-through of a generous bestowment of gifts yet to do, which he anticipated they would both love and dread. 

Though their day-to-day living arrangements would not be changing, the thought of coming home every night to find his wife sent a thrill through his soul. Everything about their union felt wonderful, felt right, and he couldn't wait to embark on the next part of this journey with her.

………

_Epilogue_

_About six months after_

Snow was coming down outside like he hadn't seen in some time, and not just because from where he had just come. In this small office, home base for the time being, he decided to deal with the pile of forwarded mail that had been awaiting his arrival, colourfully bright from the different stamps stuck to them, barely readable from the scrawled notes and stuck-on forwarding notices of the different countries they'd passed through.

One envelope, slightly bigger, slightly stiffer than the rest, caught his eye.

He pulled it up out of the pile, and with knit brows slipped a fingernail along the edge to free the contents. Out came the folded parchment paper, and on the inside surface, a notice printed in a delicate serif typeface that he had to read twice to really comprehend. Also accompanying this missive was a small slip of paper with a scrawled note, written in a hand he did not recognise.

_I look forward to meeting you!_

There was so much about this that piqued his curiosity: the fact that he had received it at all, given their recent past; the identity of the woman who'd written the note; and concerning him most of all, whether this woman was anything like the last one. They may not have been on speaking terms, but he still loved his brother.

He set the invitation down on the table, sighing heavily, looking to the ceiling as if for guidance. He knew he was months too late, that the ceremony had long since taken place, that what was done was done—but he also knew that he had to break the silence… and go.

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Ritz Paris](http://www.ritzparis.com).


End file.
